Edge of the Earth
by Riddelly
Summary: Loki's escape from Asgard wasn't something he managed on his own. The God of Mischief has three powerful new allies, and SHIELD's only way to counter them is to draft a few new members of their own: one human, one alien, and one angel. With earthly, extraterrestrial, and supernatural forces on both sides, there's no telling what the costs of this war might be. Superwhovengerlock.
1. Shadows

**A/N** _Hi there! So, this is obviously a quadruple-crossover. Superwhovengerlock, as I call it, though I've also seen 'Superwhoavengelock' floating around. I've already written this whole thing out, and will be posting one chapter (out of fifteen) each week. The first bit might be a bit difficult to understand, so I probably ought to explain: the idea here is that the Master, Moriarty, and Loki all had an alliance before they each got killed off/defeated, where the three of them basically helped each other out with their evil plans and whatnot. Ahem. The setting for this story is as follows: post-movie for the Avengers, post-Reichenbach for Sherlock, mid S5/S6 hiatus for Supernatural (when Dean's living with Lisa and Ben), and post-season 6 for Doctor Who. And I think that's about it. Oh, wait, one more thing- the image used as a 'cover' for this story is in no way mine, and will be taken down if requested. Enjoy, please review!_

**Rated T** _for language and violence in later chapters_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own the Avengers/Doctor Who/Supernatural/Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

_To the right, to the left, we will fight till the death  
__To the edge of the earth, it's a brave new world  
__From the last to the first, to the right, to the left  
__We will fight to the death, to the edge of the earth  
__It's a brave new world, it's a brave new world_

~ "This Is War," 30 Seconds to Mars

* * *

**CHAPTER I.** _Shadows_

Asgardian prisons never had much of a reputation in the first place, positive or negative, but if they did, it should have been for their stench. After three days stuck in his own small, damp cell, Loki was positive of this. It was the most utterly repulsive of odors—mildew soaked in cow urine, he decided, twisting his face into a new version of the grimace that had been cast over it ever since they removed the ridiculous muzzle placed on him by those absurd Avengers.

_Avengers. _Just the name sent a ripple of hatred through him, and his teeth clenched with disgust as his hand ran along the stone wall, withdrawing as soon as icy moisture began to collect on it. There was nothing that they were _avenging _at all. Just _protecting _their precious Earth, never even allowing a chance of what he offered. He'd made it clear enough, hadn't he? _You crave subjugation. _If they'd been strong enough to simply see past the veil of individuality that society had blinded them with, realize that there was no _need _to fight, that peace was a perfectly acceptable option…

Because he had nothing against peace, nothing at all. Yes, he'd had an army, but the literal first bullets had been fired by the humans, by Fury's SHIELD, practically the very instant that the Tesseract allowed him entrance into their world.

Never being given a chance… oh, that was a scenario that Loki was all too familiar with.

He suddenly snapped his head to the side and curled his hands into tight, straining fists, his teeth bared and rendering his emaciated, pale face little more than a grimacing skull, frosty eyes shining out of dark sockets. Confinement had reduced the god, formerly grand to behold, to a bony, greasy-haired mess, and his mind was contorted to match, twisted past the breaking point of its former shaky sanity. What he needed now, more than ever, was _revenge._

_Revenge on the Avengers. _The phonetically redundant sentence couldn't have sounded sweeter. His lips twitched, framing the words, as he sunk into the corner of his cell, arms cinched tight around his legs and spine shaking.

_Revenge._

_Revenge._

_Revenge…_

* * *

The two Asgardians positioned outside of the defeated Frost Giant's small room, though neither would mention it to the other, were rather chilled by the undeniably mad motions of the creature they were meant to be guarding. They both knew Loki's story, his many crimes as well as his punishment—and that punishment, it was only a day away now, only one more day of them having to assume these tense positions outside of his cell, watching him pace like a caged beast, eyes growing wilder by the hour.

It was death, naturally, that had been ruled as fair recompense. Loki should have died long ago, and now his time had finally come. Come morning, he'd be bound at the mouth and wrists, taken before Odin and Thor and executed formerly. The latter of two made it no secret to the rest of Asgard that he was vehemently opposed to such a thing, but the verdict was absolute. Nothing about Loki's position was worthy of survival.

The guards had no idea that they'd never live to see that dawn.

They died simultaneously, given a single moment of shock as their staffs were suddenly ripped from their hands, swung around and slid between their ribs, the sharp edge tearing flesh effortlessly and ripping through heart, lungs, reaping their lives as cleanly as any scythe. Neither had time to so much as gasp before sinking to the ground, entirely motionless.

The laugh that sounded was low but young, and, as shown moments later, belonged to a tall, dark-haired, and apparently human man, who seemed to blur into existence as he lifted a long necklace over his head. "Perception filter, you say?" he chuckled, his eyes flashing as the action was copied beside him, revealing a slightly older-looking blonde, also of humanoid appearance. "Entertainingly effective, I must say."

The blonde nodded. His lips curved into a slight grin as well, but it was different, faintly intimidated, almost—it was clear that he held the other in a high light, respect that almost approached worship. "They have proved quite useful in the past." Unlike the other's smooth American purr, his voice was faintly accented in what a human would have recognized as British.

"And the present as well." Hefting his stolen staff, the younger-faced man turned towards the shimmering, silver-tinted wall of what seemed to be pure energy separating them from the hunched, oblivious figure of Loki. "Now, let's not waste time—best to do a clean job, don't you think, grab your friend and get out of here?"

"He's not… my friend," the other corrected delicately.

"Oh? And what _would _you call him, then?"

"…An associate," he decided after a moment of contemplation, "a rather… unwilling associate. It was all Mr. Moriarty's idea—"

"Moriarty," the brunette repeated softly, tilting his head and raising his eyebrows. "The one who you're relying on me to pull back up for you."

"If it's not too much of a trouble, I _did _do you a bit of a… favor… even with the majority of time and space energy harnessed, it was rather challenging to pull you out of that… Cage."

"You owed it to me." The words were precise, and carried with them a coldness that clearly didn't go unnoticed by the other, who nodded and lowered his eyes. "However hard you might have found it to contradict my magic with your science, I can promise that blasting you out of that time loop was far from a breeze, itself. Everything that I do now, _Master, _is entirely out of… the kindness of my heart." His lips pulled away from his teeth in a predatory grin, and his eyes gleamed again, a dark shine that was undoubtedly more than a simple trick of the light. "I'd advise you don't forget that."

"Of course not."

"Excellent." He twirled the staff again, then prodded at the energy field with it, looking delighted as the silver wall parted like a curtain before dissolving into fragments of mist. They were left with nothing between them and Loki, whose head suddenly snapped up, his cold sweat-streaked lips parting in amazement as he sprang to his feet, his orb-like eyes flickering back and forth. His hands were flung out as though seeking purchase in the air, knees bent in what was clearly a defensive stance.

"You aren't of Asgard," he whispered, his voice little more than a hoarse gasp.

"Got that right," the brunette man agreed with a low laugh, his fingers tightening around the staff. Loki's gaze flickered over to the blonde, and his shock turned into glee as an unnatural smile encompassed his dirty features.

"Master."

"Loki," the Master greeted, a certain degree of coolness evident in his voice.

"Oh, but this is _fantastic._" Loki's posture evened itself out slowly, and he took a shaky step forward. "We were under the impression that you were imprisoned in your war of Time, but here you are now… found a way to escape…?"

The Master's head dipped in agreement, and he gestured towards his companion, who folded his hands over the top of his staff and rested his chin on them, smirking widely.

"This is Lucifer."

"Lucifer," Loki repeated slowly, his voice still scratchy and faint. "The humans' Devil."

"Everyone's Devil," the brunette confirmed with a wink. "Your Master pal needed some help getting out of that Time War, and, lucky for him, I existed even then—space isn't a big deal for us angels, you know, fallen or otherwise... didn't take much of an effort for him to summon me and make the deal. I broke him out of there, he pulled me from the Cage I was imprisoned in. That's when he mentioned his two _allies, _and I was curious enough to stick around. Also an alien, are you?"

Loki blinked slowly, his teeth glinting in a slight irritated grimace. "I am a _god._ Far from an alien."

"Well, see, I've met gods, and you're a bit different. I'd say you're just a super-fancy extraterrestrial who happens to be just a bit more powerful than your buddy here."

A snarl escaped Loki's lips, his expression tight with aggression, and a hint of anxiety worked its way into the Master's tone as he spoke up. "There's no need to get upset," he insisted; "we're all here for the same purpose, aren't we?"

Exhaling gradually, Loki's stiff figure relaxed by degrees. Lucifer just grinned wider and glanced over his shoulder. "Not very long," he murmured softly. "Say we get out of here before anyone stumbles upon us?"

The Master gave a terse nod and turned to Loki, muttering out of the corner of his mouth. "We're going to go back—Lucifer intends to help us retrieve Jim."

"Retrieve him?" Loki tilted his head, a cold sort of concern touching his features. "Why would we need the help of someone like this… _angel, _as he calls himself?"

"Your precious Moriarty is dead," Lucifer retorted bluntly, giving no regard to the abrupt shift in Loki's expression. The Frost Giant's mouth opened slightly, and his wide eyes gleamed with a faint echo of what could be distress.

"Dead?"

"Suicide, as a matter of fact." He sounded practically gleeful. "Shot himself right through the head. Didn't even make the news, despite the… dramatic circumstances…"

"Elaborate," Loki snarled, a new sort of venom gripping his tone. The Master casted him a worried glance, but he seemed oblivious, his stare fixed on Lucifer.

"It was all part of his big game," Lucifer sneered. "Set up a trap for Sherlock Holmes, but ended up with his own neck under the bar. Holmes was killed, as they say, but he needed Moriarty's suicide to prompt it. So it is that you and Mr. Time Lord here find yourselves in need of my assistance."

"…You're Lucifer… Satan. You can bring him back?"

"I can give it my best effort."

Their stare held itself together for a moment, piercing and electric, pale, frozen eyes boring into dark, lazy ones. Loki's face was pulled into a feline hiss, frustration clear in his twitchy, straining muscles. "…Fine," he finally panted, his eyes flickering downwards in what was clear as a forcedly submissive gesture. Tension hummed between the three beings, palpable in the expressions of Loki and the Master, though Lucifer looked absolutely at ease.

"Excellent. Now, let's head back as soon as possible…" He waved his hand in a quick, sharp motion, and the air around his fingertips seemed to swirl, shining a milky white and creating a spiral that soon grew into a windy whirlpool, thick curls of silver and cream blending and twisting together. A low howling noise emanated from it, but neither the god nor the alien reacted to the chilling sound, and the Devil just seemed entertained. "Step right through—first class transportation to planet Earth, with absolutely zero carbon emissions."

Loki snorted at the somewhat sarcastic comment, lifting his chin and watching intently as the Master took a step forward, almost immediately sucked into the whirling vortex. He glanced towards his remaining companion, who only widened his eyes.

"Ladies first," Lucifer purred.

Scoffing, Loki stepped forwards, towards the spatial phenomenon. The very world seemed to bend, and a wave of dizziness washed over him, so powerful and disorienting that it took him a long moment to realize that he was on solid ground, half-kneeling and half-crouching, his stomach heaving at the back of his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut for several seconds, struggling to inhale the dry, dusty air that he was confronted with, and waiting for his thoughts and senses to straighten themselves out. The first thing that he heard clearly was Lucifer's laugh, animated and mocking. Biting back his nausea, he unsteadily attempted to climb to his feet, ending up stumbling sideways and crashing rather heavily against the dark wood wall. His fingers sought purchase on the smooth, glossy panels, and it took him a moment to locate Lucifer's figure in the shadowed room. The fallen angel was sealing up the portal that they had presumably arrived through, flicking his fingers and closing it without leaving so much as a seam in the empty air.

"Lightheaded?" he teased, turning around and bringing his hands together in a single clap, a clear gesture of triumph. "Here I thought that you were experienced with traveling to Earth and back."

"I have not had a thing to eat or drink for two full days," Loki spat back, trying to ignore the fact that his surroundings were still a bit wobbly around the edges. "Such a form of travel can be disorienting when one is at a particularly low state."

"So it would seem."

Another wave of nausea washed over him, and he found himself shuddering unwillingly, losing his bearings for a second before warm hands took hold of his shoulders, guiding him to a crimson-cushioned armchair, which he settled into gratefully, taking several long, deep breaths as the Master's worried face swam into view before him.

"Do you need food?"

He shook his head, a single motion that looked more like a twitch than anything else. "What the hell were you thinking, taking him on as an ally? He _will_ turn on us—within a span of days, believe me."

"He was my only chance of escaping the time lock. If not for him, you'd be headed for your execution right now."

"Gossip, _gossip,_" Lucifer taunted from across the room, his voice singsong. The Master stepped back, still looking vaguely concerned, and Loki gripped the velvety arms of the chair more tightly. The formerly shadowy room was flickering into full view now, as Lucifer stepped back from a suddenly roaring fireplace. The golden orange light illuminated a high-ceilinged chamber, all sleek velvet and dark wood, the floor layered with what was undoubtedly vintage carpet and a grand piano parked in the corner, under a decadent but unlit crystal chandelier.

"Well, isn't this extravagant," said Loki, trying to keep his tone at least somewhat condescending. Lucifer just raised one dark eyebrow, snapping his fingers before sipping from a slim glass of wine that had suddenly appeared in one hand. Loki's parched throat seemed to cry out at the sight of the dark scarlet liquid, and he couldn't hold back a dry exhalation of desire.

Lucifer chuckled. "Thirsty, God of Mischief?" Before Loki got a chance to respond, he waved his empty fingers, and the air above Loki's armchair melted into the shape of a slender-stemmed glass, which then filled itself generously with clear water before floating into his waiting hand.

"I do think it best that you not consume alcohol when your focus is already this low," he commented lowly as the god took several desperate gulps. The glass obediently refilled itself once he had emptied it, and Lucifer and the Master watched on in incredulity as he drank for at least a minute straight, swallowing mouthful after mouthful before finally sinking back against his chair cushions, a curtain of tiredness falling over his face.

"Incidentally, I haven't been able to… sleep for the past two days, either," he got out, the words slurred with apparent exhaustion.

Lucifer just snorted. "Feel free to take a nap, O godly being, but I do think you might want to be around for your precious Jimmy's resurrection."

"…Moriarty?" His wintry eyes sharpened through their sleepy haze, and he straightened up slightly. "You're going to bring him back?"

"Now or never." Lucifer clapped his hands together, rubbing them quickly, and before Loki and the Master had time to so much as see what he was doing, there was an explosion of flame, a glowing orange pillar erupting out of the floor directly in front of Lucifer, hissing and roaring. Loki flung himself backwards against the chair, a hissing gasp escaping his lips, but the Master simply looked on, wide-eyed and with a manic smile to match Lucifer's curving the edge of his mouth.

"Jim," the Time Lord breathed.

Slowly, a dark figure became visible through the fire, which, though it generously radiated heat, didn't seem to burn any surface it touched. A few seconds later, it condensed into the definite shape of a slightly shorter-than-average, sleekly slim human. The flames flared, quickly and briefly, shining white just long enough to illuminate the silhouette's wicked smile before dying down into ash.

Standing there, his appearance pristine and polished, was Jim Moriarty, criminal mastermind. In the sudden silence, his smirk widened, and he tipped his head forwards in a slight nod.

"Master… Loki."

"He brought you back," Loki rasped in amazement. "He… he really did bring you back."

"So it would seem…" His gaze drifted to Lucifer. "Satan himself, or so I hear. I'm a big fan."

"James Moriarty," Lucifer murmured in response; "it _is _a pleasure."

"Mutual." They shook hands briefly, Moriarty's slender fingers practically crushed inside Lucifer's heavy ones, as the Master and Loki looked on in barely-suppressed awe at the resurrected psychopath. After a long moment, the Irish man turned to his allies, his arms wide and a large beam spread over his features.

"Now, I presume there's a _reason _for all this, and you didn't just drag me back because you missed my pretty face?"

"The same goal as always," the Master explained. "The Doctor…" His voice twisted into a low growl. "He's still out there. And I believe that Lucifer has a certain grudge he wishes to fulfill, as well."

"Dean Winchester," the tall brunette agreed. "Handsome devil's survived a lot more than he's worth, and it's about time that his trip to Hell become one-way. Not to mention, there's a certain angel whose skinny ass I'd just love to smoke."

"Well, our plates are very full, then, aren't they?" Moriarty mused. "Let's just hope that darling Sherlock _stays_ dead."

"That's not all," Loki interjected, his eyes still not losing their fevered look. Cold sweat stood out on his dirty face, emphasizing its pale tone, and his chest was heaving with swift breaths, his knuckles straining white where he gripped the arms of his chair.

"Ah…" Moriarty looked him up and down slowly, giving a small nod. "Your brother still causing trouble, I presume?"

"More so than ever. But he has… _allies _this time," he sneered delicately. His head jerked as if to dislodge something on the ends of his hair, an odd tic that the Master and Lucifer were beginning to recognize as quite common. "A whole group of them."

"Does he now?" Rather than being upset by this, Moriarty looked rather delighted at the prospect of a new challenge.

Loki's chin tilted in a shallow nod, and his tone was contorted with more hatred than ever as he spoke his next words.

"They call themselves the Avengers."


	2. Assembly

**A/N** _Thanks so much for all the favorites and alerts, guys, they're really encouraging! :D_

**Thanks to** _animegirl03_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own the Avengers/Doctor Who/Supernatural/Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER II. **_Assembly_

Tony Stark hated alarms, especially in the morning, and more so than ever when he wasn't the one to set them the previous night.

And this one was particularly disruptive, a single piercing, endless beep that seemed to worm its way into his ears, effortlessly inducing a low throbbing sensation at the base of his brain. His automatic response was to groan, reaching over blindly to pull the nearest overstuffed pillow over his face, but such an action didn't suppress the noise in the slightest.

"Useless piece of junk," he mumbled to the empty room, squinting into the morning light as he ripped the pillow away, tossing it towards the wall and flopping back onto the springy mattress. "JARVIS, what the hell is this?"

The amiable, polite tones of the computer filled the air, a much more welcome noise than the screech of the alarm, but simply unbearable when the two were combined. "It would seem that Director Fury is attempting to make contact with you, sir."

"Well, can you shut it up?" he half-yelled above the increasing din. "He's got to know that I need to sleep once in a while."

"I'm afraid that he's used a system override, sir. He seems very intent on getting you to talk with him."

"Figures," Tony snorted. "Well—"

"Mr. Stark!" This time, it wasn't JARVIS who was speaking, but rather Nick Fury himself, his voice only slightly scratchy through the computer's speakers. "If you don't _mind, _we're in need of your attention right this moment."

"I just woke up!"

"Trust me, I know. It took you several minutes to get that far."

Tony grumbled wordlessly for a moment, then straightened up with an exaggerated groan, running a hand through his bed-rumpled hair. "What d'you need so badly that you can't let me get a decent amount of sleep?"

"It's nine thirty-five, Mr. Stark."

"Don't give me numbers this early," he objected, waving his fingers vaguely in the empty air. "Brain's not working yet."

A heavy sigh crackled through the air. "We're calling you in."

"Nope. Not gonna work out. We got rid of Loki less than a week ago, you gotta give us a break."

"Loki is back."

Fury's voice was grim, and Tony's eyes widened at the words it carried. For a moment, the space was filled with tense silence, then he rolled out of bed, brows drawn tight over his eyes. "How is that even possible?" he demanded in a much more intent tone than before, reaching blindly for a robe and pulling it over himself.

"I'm going to call you back on a regular phone in three minutes. This method of communication is highly insecure."

"Yeah, okay." Stress began to pound out a staccato pattern against the inside of his skull, skittering up and down his forehead. "JARVIS, where's Pepper gotten herself to?"

"I'd expect you to remember, sir, that Ms. Potts departed just last night for the conference in—"

"Right, that." He huffed and paced out of his room alone, wandering the depressingly silent halls of the temporary residence he and Pepper had situated themselves in during the rebuilding of Stark Tower. It was as luxurious as any of the other mansions he owned, but still didn't quite have the proper homely air that he'd grown used to. Or maybe that was just the fact that she wasn't here. He never really noticed how much her presence added to the atmosphere until it was taken away.

No use dwelling on that, though. Fury had made it sound as though he had much bigger problems than his assistant being abroad.

_Loki is back._

The SHIELD director's words echoed in his ears, more and more hollow with every repetition. How was that even possible? Thor had taken custody of the renegade god, brought him back to Asgard… hadn't he? Teeming with lingering tiredness and budding frustration, Tony situated himself at the granite-topped kitchen counter, tapping his fingers on it obsessively and keeping his eyes on the nearest phone. When its face finally lit up, signaling a call, he snapped his fingers over and brought it up to his ear, speaking rapidly.

"Tell me what's going on."

"He's been spotted," Fury explained darkly. "Loki, unmistakably."

"Could be some sort of weird cult member? Those anti-Avengers groups have been popping up all over the place. Super enthusiast, might've gotten plastic surgery or whatever to look like…" Tony was grasping at straws, and they both knew it.

"That's not all. His sighting was the lucky part; we already know that he escaped from Asgard somehow, thanks to Thor."

"Thor's back, too?"

"Sounds like he didn't have a choice. Odin was adamant that he get his brother back, from what I gather."

"Pissed-off dad, we all know what that's like," he muttered, nodding as his fingers drummed along the countertop. "Right, so, missing Loki, spotted Loki, that's all? Without the Tesseract, there's nothing that the guy could do to this planet. He's practically helpless."

"That's where it gets complicated. There's no way that he could have escaped the prison in Asgard without help, and the footage with him in it also happens to contain two other unlikely figures."

"I'm listening."

"Harry Saxon and Sam Winchester. Either one of them ring a bell?"

Tony frowned at the empty kitchen. "Should they?"

"Saxon was Prime Minister of England a couple years back. Disappeared under completely mysterious circumstances—rumor's that it had something to do with his wife, Lucy, but nothing was ever confirmed. And Winchester, well, he's been in all kinds of trouble, but it looked as though he'd vanished for good just a few months ago. SHIELD has been keeping tabs on his family for a while now, and all we know at this point is that his brother, Dean, seems settled down at this point—partner, job, kid, the works. Acting like Sam never existed."

"So, people that should be dead or missing are all appearing suddenly."

"These three are."

"And what do you want us to do about it?"

"We're expanding the team."

Tony exhaled, bracing his elbow on the counter and pressing the heel of his free hand into his forehead. Perfect—more people to get on the nerves of. And just when he'd been starting to appreciate his freedom from their tiresome group, too—just the thought of going back to work with Steve Rogers, allies though they may be at this point, made him feel sick. "Isn't six enough?"

"Not for who we're dealing with. You're being split into groups of two who'll go out and recruit the others. It seemed a more… friendly method than sending agents, seeing as these three don't even know about SHIELD's existence."

"Oh, yeah, let them be brought in by the superheroes instead of the more human ones," he snorted. "That's always a good idea."

"Stark, I'm not asking for your judgment on my decision. All I need is your cooperation. You have one day to get back to New York. We've rented out a building there for the time being, while SHIELD's headquarters are being rebuilt—I'll send the address to that computer of yours."

"And what should I expect once I arrive?"

"You'll be debriefed on the men that we intend for you to retrieve for us. You and Captain Rogers are to go after a certain 'Castiel.'"

The first name had a much more notable impact on him than the second one. _Captain Rogers. Why am I not surprised? _Prodding some more at the nagging headache that had now drifted to a point in-between his eyes, Tony muttered assent into the phone. "I suppose I'll try my best to get over there, then."

"We'll be waiting."

* * *

"Sherlock Holmes, the Doctor, and Castiel," Nick Fury announced, standing at the head of the long table around which the various Avengers were positioned. Steve sat with his elbow on the surface and his chin resting on his hand, eyes intent, while Bruce nervously ran his fingers over one another, Clint folded his arms on the table, and Natasha sat straight and still. Tony prided himself in clearly being the most comfortable of them all, hands folded casually behind his reclining head and legs extended in order to fully appreciate the swivel chair that he was perched in. Fury shot him an irritated one-eyed glance, but Tony's reply consisted simply of a tight grin. Sighing with exasperation, the SHIELD director reached forward to a stack of file folders perched on the table, and proceeded to hand them to Natasha, who was seated closest to him.

"These are three figures that we've had an eye on for a particularly long time," he continued, settling back on his heels once more and folding his hands behind his back. Natasha's eyebrows drew together as she slipped open the first folder, running her finger over the papers inside. "Only one of them, to the best of our knowledge, is wholly human."

He gave his assembled heroes a moment for this to sink in. Tony, to his credit, wasn't particularly impressed. Thor, Loki, those countless otherworldly beasts… he was used to aliens, at this point. Bored of them, even. A new challenge would be nice.

And a new challenge, it seemed, was exactly what Fury had in store.

"Castiel," he began, his deep voice accentuating the last syllable. A Christian name, Tony recognized, based on the inflection, though not one he'd heard before. "That's the only name he goes by, and, best we can tell, also the only name he has." The wide screen positioned on the wall behind him flickered to life, and he stepped to the side so that the image on it was more visible. It seemed to be a photo shot by a security camera, monochrome and slightly blurry, but still a relatively clean image. Featured in the center was a man in a long, pale trench coat, his shaggy dark hair shadowing alarmingly intent eyes that were fixated directly at the camera itself. A number of the Avengers leaned forward in interest, but Tony remained in his relaxed position, evaluating from a distance.

"He claims," Fury elaborated once the picture had sunk in, his voice not in the least sarcastic, "to be an Angel of the Lord."

Tony snorted aloud at this, digging his heels into the floor and spinning his swivel chair back and forth slightly. "So he's either an idiot or a psycho. Nothing to gain from that."

Steve, naturally, was the first to glare up at him, his blue eyes bright with _don't-insult-my-ridiculous-religion _bullshit. Bruce just looked strained, and Clint's expression didn't alter in the slightest, except perhaps for his already creased forehead to tighten just a bit more. Natasha, however, was the only one to speak—she pushed the file she'd been paging through down the table, and Tony leaned forward to snatch it.

"Look in there," she said. "Whether or not the guy's an angel, it definitely looks like he's got some respectable powers."

Perusing the files made that fact extremely evident. Along with a smaller version of the same photo projected at the front of the room, the file contained several sheets of text—name, _Castiel, _a good deal of question marks next to 'age' and 'origin,' and a bold-printed list of 'abilities.'

_Capable of disappearing and reappearing in different locations, seemingly at will… apparent invincibility… can heal most flesh wounds on humans with a single touch..._

_Known affiliates include proclaimed 'hunters' Dean and Sam (x) Winchester and Bobby Singer…_

"Sam Winchester," he spoke up slowly. "That's the guy you told me about."

"The one that I told all of you about," Fury agreed. "One of the spotted threats. Castiel seemed to have a key role in his disappearance—and what we thought to be death, before video footage that you've all been told of informed us otherwise. This 'angel' is our biggest chance of information on Winchester aside from his brother, and he's a superior choice to Dean in that he could be an actual advantage to our team. Mr. Stark and Captain Rogers will be in charge of retrieving him, and additional information pertaining to his location will be provided after the termination of this meeting."

Tony and Steve exchanged stiff nods, nonverbal agreements to put aside their constant feud for the sake of bringing back this Castiel.

His chin tilting in approval, Fury turned back to the board on the wall, which suddenly changed images. This one was much clearer, and showed a tall, aloof-looking man, with a thin face featuring icy greenish eyes and copiously curly dark hair. A deep gray-black overcoat was draped over his slim shoulders, and a navy blue scarf pulled tight around his neck.

"Sherlock Holmes," Fury labeled him. "One hundred percent human, though his colleagues would tell you that it can be pretty damn difficult to believe so sometimes. Well, his _former _colleagues. Holmes committed suicide recently by plunging off the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital in London."

"Oh, I heard about that," Tony offered, suddenly realizing why the name seemed vaguely familiar. "Some sort of false identity thing, was it?"

"He was a self-proclaimed consulting detective for Scotland Yard. Recently, however, the newspapers revealed that all the mysteries he had supposedly solved were invented by him. He was a fraud, a criminal himself. The release of such a truth was so jarring that he chose death over humiliation and punishment."

The air seemed to ring with silence as Fury's last word dropped off, and Tony couldn't help but glance over at Bruce, who had suddenly gone utterly still. He was the only one in the room whom Tony knew to be at all suicidal—such a thing was foreign to his own mind, something that he could never begin to comprehend. When was death ever better than life? And what had led this Holmes man to think so? Did he have nothing rooting him down, no family, no friends? Looking back towards the photograph, such a thing wasn't too difficult to believe. Sherlock Holmes looked cold, distant, and extremely arrogant, all of that evident solely in the way he glared superiorly at the camera.

"How are we supposed to recruit him if he's dead?" Steve pointed out.

"He's not," Fury replied simply. "It was a fake within a fake—set up by his arch-nemesis, James Moriarty."

"Moriarty?" Tony repeated curiously, the unfamiliar name rolling off of his tongue with surprising ease. "Don't recognize it."

"You shouldn't. He was extremely covert. Disguised himself as a man named 'Richard Brook,' said that he was an actor whom Holmes had hired to 'play' his enemy… it's not important," he muttered at the confused glances from all the Avengers. "What matters is that Moriarty is dead now, shot himself through the head. And Holmes's own suicide was all faked. He's very much alive and well, but is currently staying under the radar way up in the Swiss mountains, with the funding and assistance of his brother. It's the job of Agent Barton and Agent Romanoff to bring him here."

Natasha nodded shortly, but Clint scowled. "What use is he to us?"

"There's a reason that the London police consulted with him so often. He's… a phenomenon of the human race, one could say. His mental capacities are above and beyond any other's."

Tony couldn't help but scoff, raising his eyebrows in what he knew to be an incredibly obnoxious gesture. "Is that so?"

"Yes, it is, Mr. Stark," Fury retorted, his single eye flashing dark again. "And before you decide to unleash your disgusting vanity on the rest of us, I'll have you know that the man is literally capable of telling someone their life story from a single glance in their direction."

That was enough to silence Tony, at least for the time being, and he opted to sit back thoughtfully, choosing not to speak while Fury went on.

"And, finally, we have the Doctor." The screen flipped one final time, this time to a man tall and pale like Sherlock, but with notably different attire. A tweed jacket, bowtie, and suspenders encased his slim figure, a flop of dark, straight hair hung over his deep-set eyes, and a wide grin split his rather rectangular face. He was eagerly giving the camera a thumbs-up, leaning in next to a young and rather pretty redheaded woman, whose features were scrunched together with heavy laughter. "A man who is most certainly alien. Information on him is very scarce, but we've managed to learn that he calls himself a Time Lord, from a planet known as Gallifrey. And he's appropriately named, or so things would seem, because the word is that he does indeed time travel—in a blue phone box."

"A _phone box?_" Natasha repeated, delicately raising one dark red eyebrow.

"Calls it his TARDIS." The screen flickered and divided into quadrants, the first picture flying into the top-left section. A vivid blue phone box, just as Fury had described, was shown to its right, and the bottom images featured two seemingly unrelated men, one of them with scruffy brown hair and a brown pinstriped suit, the other a stern expression, rather prominent ears, and a leather jacket. "These two are also the Doctor—the same man, in different _regenerations_, as he calls them. Best we can tell, he changes his appearance every few years. Aside from the obvious benefits that come with his time-traveling capacities, the Doctor is known to have some relation with Harry Saxon."

"The man seen with Loki and Winchester," Bruce noted pensively.

"Exactly. The Doctor could be of great value to us, and so you are to retrieve him for us, Dr. Banner, along with the help of Thor, who's arriving here this evening. We've been able to make contact with Asgard, and they assure us that he's to be sent on his way."

"Alright," Tony allowed, "so we go out and grab these guys, bring them all back. But then what?"

Fury leaned forward, placing his hands palms-down on the tabletop, and drew his face into such a serious expression that it stretched the dark scars branching out from his eye patch, causing them to bunch and flex like shadows. "And then we hope," he growled, "that they're enough to save us from whatever Loki has planned."


	3. Retrieval

**A/N** _And here's a chapter away from the central chaos, with Sherlock in Switzerland and a bit of post-Reichenbach angst. Don't worry, though, the other characters come in soon enough. The amount of reviews I've received is fantastic, and I'm extremely grateful- keep up the awesomeness! :D_

**Thanks to** _elmoisemo6, book-sage, ShakespearesAlexa, Basia Orci, and BloodyRosie_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own the Avengers/Doctor Who/Supernatural/Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER III**. _Retrieval_

Sherlock Holmes was perceptive enough to know when he was being stalked, and this time, the signs were unmistakable.

It happened as he sat in bed—the usual position; he rarely ever slept, but instead chose to lean against the headboard and let his thoughts mull about for the hours of darkness. Unfortunately, these thoughts all-too-often happened to contain traces of John, which he cast away as soon as they came anywhere near the field of his mental focus. With John came memories, and with memories came emotion.

Sherlock would never let himself touch emotion again. He knew where that went, now, and it was nowhere good.

The twitch of his curtain caught his attention this time, though, and successfully sent any recollections of his former flatmate flying from his mind entirely. He cautiously rose, managing to stay utterly silent as he slipped out of bed and inched towards the wide window set into the side of the high-ceilinged room of the absurd Swiss mansion owned by Mycroft. The curtain was still now, hanging dark and silent, but the traces of dust breezing through the air were unmistakable. Something here had been stirred.

He narrowed his eyes and extended a hand slowly, brushing along the edge of the heavy velvet. If Mycroft were here, he'd snarl at the stupidity of such an action as looking outside—his unsaid words seemed to echo in Sherlock's head, stiff and irritable. _Sebastian Moran is still out there, and he's most likely not the only operative that Moriarty has in motion. It would be incredibly unwise to seek out any sign of danger that—_

Even the thought of his voice was infuriating. Rebellion and stir-craziness boiling in his chest, Sherlock threw the drape open in a single swift action, gritting his teeth and preparing to duck.

As it turned out, there was no one on the other side—just the usual wide, closed window sealing the stuffy room from the frosty outdoors. Snow lay over the hills rippling away from the mansion, a shadowy blanket without so much as a single footprint to mar its perfect surface, which shimmered and glinted in the moonlight.

He knew better than to be fooled by the simple lack of a trail, though. Instead, his gaze flickered down to the sill of the window. No visible fingerprints, and breathing on the glass to mist it up revealed that it was clear, as well. It was as if a ghost had crept into his room, flicked the edge of the curtain, and proceeded to vanish entirely.

But Sherlock knew better than to believe in ghosts.

Reveling in how much it would infuriate Mycroft, he slipped his fingers under the edge of the heavy wooden window frame and shoved it roughly upwards. A grating noise split the air, and he winced, hoping desperately that Mycroft's men weren't woken by the harsh sound. He didn't take the time to hesitate, but instead hauled himself out, savoring the relief of cool winter wind on his cheeks and along the thin fabric of his silken pajamas. After sparing a quick glance back over his shoulder, he slipped into the snowdrift. The snow's chill immediately sank into the skin of his bare feet, but he ignored it, narrowing his eyes and scanning the shadowy courtyard as he shut the window behind him.

A sharp, whistling breeze cut through the empty expanse of ice and stone, swirling the wispy clouds that interrupted the perfect inky blackness of the starless sky. Sherlock gratefully drew a deep breath, filling his lungs to the brim with the clean outdoorsy scent, then took a moment to gather his bearings. There had undoubtedly been someone outside his window, yet there were no footprints. Meaning that the only direction they could have gone…

He couldn't help but smirk as his gaze rose, raking the intricately carved outside of the five-story mansion. Just barely visible were several damp marks against the pale surface, clear evidence of a hasty climber whose shoes had gotten wet in the snow.

Pursuing the mysterious spy was an entirely idiotic course of action, and Sherlock was perfectly aware of that. But he couldn't help himself. He was just so damn _bored. _Bored of hiding, bored of waiting for something that might never come… it was about time that he put himself in danger again.

He pulled himself back onto the windowsill, this time shimmying up against the wall and groping at the swirls and tiny gargoyles sculpted excessively along it. His fingers managed to secure themselves around the rim of one, and he gritted his teeth, glancing upwards and squinting into the darkened snowfall, spiraling lazily downwards so that flakes caught in his hair and eyelashes. The thick carpet of snow on the ground would somewhat help to cushion his fall for the first couple of stories, he knew, but judging by the trail he intended to follow, he'd have to reach the very top of the building, and falling from four or more levels up could easily be fatal.

_How ironic, _he couldn't help but think, _if that's how I really do end up dying…_

Such a mental pattern was utterly ridiculous, though, and he knew that. He'd attempted much more deadly ventures before; this little climb was practically nothing. Holding this in mind, he began to scale the wall slowly, one hand after another, keeping his feet balanced underneath him. Several tediously cautious minutes later, his hands finally wrapped around the top of the building, and moments afterwards he was scrambling up, dusting off the legs of his pajama pants and straightening to his full height.

A single slim shadow stood in the center of the expansive rooftop, a vortex of pale snowflakes swirling around it. An instant later, he could identify it as a well-shaped female, her shoulder-length hair backlit faintly red. Her face was in shadow, but he could tell by the angle of her arm that her hand was positioned on her hip, quite likely to ensure that a gun was within easy reach.

"Who are you here for?" he asked warily, his eyes narrow, standing still and straight despite the shivers that taunted the edges of his ribs and spine.

Her voice came drifting across the several meters of space between them, soft American but with a subtle undertone hinting at Russian origins. "Who says I'm here _for _anyone?"

Sherlock's fingers twitched with impatience. "None of my enemies are American or Russian. You must be a big name in the former country, hired out by one of them to track me down… though I imagine that if you wanted to kill me, you would have done so already."

"How is Russia relevant?" she questioned. Despite her obvious attempts to mask it, surprise was evident in her tone.

"You were obviously born there, learned it as a first language, though English came soon after—perhaps some others, too; judging by the dexterity of your tongue evident in your enunciation, you're used to communicating in a variety of accents and dialects… and probably do a good job of it, too. Some sort of spy, then? But not sent on the kind of mission you're used to, in that case. You're not even trying to hide from me…"

Several long moments crept by, during which the only sound was the low howl of wind in the hills and valleys around the mansion they were standing on top of. Finally, the woman spoke, managing to keep her tone cool.

"You live up to your expectations, Sherlock Holmes."

"Don't expect me to be impressed solely by your knowledge of my name. Tell me who you're working for," he demanded again, beginning to sound a bit impatient. Inside, though, he was far from annoyed—excitement was buzzing through his veins, of a sort he hadn't felt since before the St. Bart's rooftop. Since… well, since he was back with John.

_No. Not going to think about John. Not now._

"My name is Natasha Romanoff," she finally allowed. "I'm here on behalf of SHIELD."

"SHIELD?" Sherlock repeated, testing the unfamiliar acronym between his lips. "An American organization?"

"You could say so, yes. But our director seems to be eager to pull in more… exotic members, and that's why I'm here."

"I'm meant to be recruited to this SHIELD of yours?" He snorted with disbelief. "I'm afraid that I don't have time to be consorting with American fashion models. As a matter of fact, my brother and I will be very interested as to just how you managed to track me down in the first place, considering that I'm dead to the public eye at the moment."

"SHIELD isn't exactly public," Romanoff murmured, "and it's definitely far from a _fashion model _agency."

"I'll say," another voice chuckled. Sherlock stiffened, his gaze stepping up, and Romanoff let out a low groan as another figure stepped out of the shadows, this one much more masculine than her petite frame.

"Clint," the redheaded agent growled through her teeth, "I thought I told you that I could handle this one."

"Sorry, I couldn't resist." As the new man—_Clint—_settled into stillness next to Romanoff, Sherlock was able to discern an odd protrusion rising from between his thick neck and heavily muscled arms—almost like some sort of… arrow quiver. Glancing down, he saw that was also clutching a slim weapon that easily could have been a bow. Some sort of archer, then?

"And you are?" Sherlock asked delicately.

"Agent Clint Barton, of SHIELD. I'd say it's a pleasure to meet you, but the truth is that I'd really rather not be here at all."

"Likewise." A complete lie, of course—Sherlock hadn't been this intrigued in months.

"Disregarding Agent Barton," Romanoff sighed, "the point of this visit is to take you back with us. A danger to all of humanity has revealed itself to be present on Earth, and our Director has told us that your mental capacities are unparalleled. SHIELD needs you, Mr. Holmes."

"As flattering as that may be, I don't see any reason why coming would benefit me. There's a _reason _that I'm in hiding, Miss Romanoff, and it's highly… personal."

"Sebastian Moran," she supplied easily, and his eyes widened. _That, _for a change, was most definitely unexpected. Barton let out a low laugh at his reaction, and he quickly pulled disinterest back onto his face in time for Romanoff to continue. "Previously a gunman for the late Jim Moriarty, now gone rogue. You fear that he might track down John Watson if your survival is revealed… SHIELD knows."

_How? _The question burned in Sherlock's mind, hot and bright, contrasting fiercely to the calm coolness that filled the physical atmosphere. He didn't dare to voice it, though—exposing any ignorance, any weakness, was incredibly unwise at this point.

"As you're sure to have realized," Agent Romanoff went on, crossing her slender arms and gripping her elbows, "we have access to much more than you'd expect. We know Moran's current whereabouts, and it would be our pleasure to send agents to… take care of him."

"You can kill Moran?" Sherlock demanded, momentarily forgetting that he was meant to seem all-knowledgeable. This… this was more than he'd ever expected, from anyone, let alone a woman appearing on his rooftop in the middle of the night. It was too good to believe, too easy.

"Easily," she confirmed. "All we need is your willingness to help us deal with the present problem. Three men—convicts, you could say—have been seen in the company of one another. As an alliance, they'll pose a respectable threat to humanity itself. This is bigger than anything you've ever dealt with before, Mr. Holmes. But with your help, we'll have just that much more chance of survival. And if that chance is fulfilled… you'll be given the full opportunity to return to Dr. Watson and your former home, that… 221b Baker Street."

It wasn't even a question, really. Sherlock still knew next to nothing about these Romanoff and Barton characters, not to mention the shady-sounding organization that they worked for, but John was his weak spot. And it seemed like they knew that just as well as he did. Any chance of killing Moran, of going back _home… _telling everyone the truth, seeing the look on his former flatmate's face…

"I'll come with you," he promised quietly, the words dropping like stones into the night air. "But if you show any signs of breaking that promise—any signs _at all—_don't hesitate to believe that I will never help you again."

"Of course," Romanoff agreed easily. He could hear the moderately disguised relief in her voice, and Barton's tense stature seemed to relax ever so slightly, as well. "Let's get down from this roof, then. We have a helicopter, parked a couple of miles outside of this estate—I presume that you won't mind a bit of walking."

Sherlock shook his head numbly.

"Good. We might be able to make it back to New York by local sunrise, if we hurry. Director Fury will be pleased that you agreed to come so easily."

_New York._ Sherlock gritted his teeth and exhaled slowly.

It was going to be a long flight.

* * *

Several hours later, after a tiring introduction to Nick Fury and a brief tour of SHIELD's small, partially reconstructed headquarters, Sherlock found himself seated at a long table, Agents Barton and Romanoff in chairs across from him. Fury had said that he was sending in others to meet them soon, and that they were meant to speak among one another, trying to form some sort of 'bond.' Sherlock knew how unlikely such a thing was, but he decided to humor the one-eyed director, at least for the time being. Besides, he was curious to see who his new allies would be. He'd been told who he was working against—Loki, Harry Saxon, and Sam Winchester, none of which were names he recognized—but not who he would be operating at the side of.

He only had to endure a few minutes of waiting in the stoic company of the two agents before the door slid open again, to reveal three new men. On the left was a solidly built brunette with cautious eyes, his hands wrapped around each other in a clear expression of anxiety. The right side featured an incredibly muscular blonde, his features strong and his hair long and stringy, hanging down to his shoulders, which, like the rest of his body, were covered in an odd sort of Norse-looking armor.

_Interesting._

But the man that captured Sherlock's attention the most was the one in-between them. His outfit, though not as prominent as the blonde's, was rather unusual, consisting of thin red suspenders and a matching bowtie over a white shirt, partially covered by a tweed jacket. His face was young, almost childish, his eyes tired yet eager and his hair dark and parted.

"Well, hello there," the bowtie-wearing man greeted eagerly. "You must be Natasha, Clint, and Sherlock?"

Romanoff's eyebrows drew together, but she gave a small nod. Barton did the same, extending a hand, which younger man hurried forward to grip enthusiastically. Sherlock didn't react at all, but rather kept his expression straight, gaze flickering over the other two.

"Mr. Holmes?" the shorter, dark-haired man asked, a nervous smile twitching at his lips. Sherlock allowed a short nod of affirmation. "Dr. Bruce Banner. I've heard a lot about you." The detective reluctantly accepted the hand that Banner offered, giving it a single quick shake before tucking his own fingers back into the pocket of the coat he and the other agents had retrieved before departing from the mansion.

"I am known as Thor," the other man introduced himself. His voice was deep, and he surveyed Sherlock with a precise sort of wariness in his pale blue eyes.

_Thor. Fascinating. _Romanoff's words came back to Sherlock suddenly—_a respectable threat to humanity itself—_and it occurred to him for the first time that perhaps they were dealing with something, as inconceivable as it seemed, _beyond _humanity. Something about Thor certainly seemed… off, and his name, given as a standalone, couldn't be called typical, either. The detective gave his armor a brief glance, and a slow chill slid down his spine.

_God of thunder…_

That was ridiculous, though—utterly ridiculous. As important as SHIELD clearly thought themselves to be, there was no way that they could be consorting with… _gods. _No way at all.

"Sherlock Holmes!" the final, unnamed man exclaimed, spinning on his heel and clapping his hands together eagerly. Sherlock finally broke the cold eye contact that he had been maintaining with Thor, turning and meeting the other's gaze. "Bruce here's right, we've heard a _lot _about you. Tell someone their life story from a single glance, isn't that right? Give me all you've got." He flung his arms out, clearly indicating full exposure, and Sherlock caught the tip of his tongue in between his teeth, evaluating slowly.

_Bizarre attitude and peculiar fashion sense—certainly not from around here. English accent, clearly, but with an odd inflection… very faint, but just barely perceptible. Also well-traveled, then. But clean shoes, trousers… Fury treats us all the same way, and I was never given time to change, so he's been wearing these clothes all along. His transportation is incredibly clean, then. Not any sort of car—the man is clearly unfamiliar with technology, or at least our technology; there's no sort of mobile device on him, flat pockets—_

Sherlock's thoughts froze, then rewound, processing a bit of information over again.

_Or at least our technology…_

And then he knew that Agent Romanoff's words a while back weren't just an unlikely choice of phrasing. Looking into this stranger's eyes, Sherlock could suddenly see it, vividly—the age, the wisdom, the experience, all hidden underneath that bubbly exterior.

"Alien," he breathed.


	4. Injury

**A/N** _Whew, a certain angel finally decides to make an appearance this time! Though I should probably forewarm you, his entrance is a bit different than I believe most were expecting. What can I say? I'm a sucker for hurt!Cas. Don't hate me! xD He gets a bit more time to shine later, in any case. Again, the number of favorites, alerts, and reviews is extremely encouraging, thank you all so much!_

**Thanks to** _Basia Orci, AlbanNeji, PhoenixMa'at, extraordinary geek, and Lucyndareads__  
_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own the Avengers/Doctor Who/Supernatural/Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER IV. **_Injury_

"Very good!" the Doctor exclaimed delightedly, rubbing his hands together with eagerness. "Very good, indeed. Ooh, it _is _fun to have someone who might actually be able to keep up with me!"

Natasha, Bruce, Clint, and Thor all scowled to various degrees, but the Doctor had eyes only for Sherlock as he stepped closer, still beaming. "So, human consulting detective, faked your own death but previously lived in London, ridiculous power of thought bordering on genius. That's all I've got on you. What else should I know?"

"Nothing that I care to tell you," Sherlock growled, looking ruffled. The Doctor's expression drooped slightly, but he perked up again moments later.

"Well, in any case, I'm sure I'll get to see your abilities in action. Unfortunately, I can't tell you to expect much from me… as a matter of fact, I'm still working to figure out just why I'm here." His voice was beginning to get a little more serious as he turned around, facing Bruce and Thor, who were still standing stiffly on either side of the doorway.

"You didn't explain to him?" Natasha questioned, surprise flitting across her features.

"There wasn't time," Bruce mumbled, meeting the Doctor's eyes apologetically. "Director Fury told us to bring you back here as soon as possible, and since you were willing…"

"I'm always up for a new adventure, of course. But you can't assume that I'm going to help you when you haven't even told me what our goal is… I have to say, this whole setup is a lot more… military than I usually care for." _Too many weapons… _in this room alone, Thor's massive hammer was dangling from his heavy belt, and Natasha had a pistol strapped to her hip. Clint, Sherlock, and Bruce seemed unarmed, but two out of five was still far too high of a ratio for the Doctor's comfort.

"Only because we're dealing with threats who are at least as violent as us," Clint grunted. "We can't always be peaceful, sir, not when it puts us at risk."

"I suppose I can respect that," the Doctor murmured, dipping his head. But he didn't stand up quite as straight as before—weariness was suddenly rolling over him in heavy waves. It was exhausting, all of it. Being pulled into some hidden military base that even he hadn't known about, being told that there was some unnamed threat endangering the planet itself… he missed the days with Amy and Rory, being able to go off to any random, exciting planet and indulge in ventures that were typically at least seventy percent safe…

Of course, the center of this SHIELD setup was clearly meant to be 'safe,' as well, but it was a different sort of safe, one built on two-foot-thick metal walls and laser beams flickering over the hallways, security cameras peeking out of every corner and armed guards marching the hallways. SHIELD expected to be attacked at any moment, and he got the nagging feeling that they were always like that, even under the rare circumstance that there wasn't an established threat for them to contend with.

"In any case," Bruce spoke up, shattering the glassy silence, "I believe that Director Fury will be here in a few minutes to clear everything up… as soon as Mr. Stark and Captain Rogers bring in the man they were after."

"Angel," Natasha corrected softly. "He called himself an angel, according to the files."

"An _angel?_" the Doctor repeated amazedly. He paced over to the nearest chair and slipped into it, rocking back and forth with delight at the swiveling mechanism and speaking rapidly the whole time. "An angel, now _that's _something I've never heard before… the Devil, sure, but no angel… unless it's a _Weeping _Angel, but of course not, you mean a real angel, like an angel from Heaven… this'll be good, this'll be _very _good. My best guess is that he's some sort of obscure alien… does he act like a mythological angel? From what you know?"

"His abilities certainly seem… remarkable," Natasha allowed. "There was a file folder, I don't know what Fury's done with it… something about teleportation and immortality, though."

"Self-contained teleportation?" At Natasha's confused frown, he waved his hands as though that would cause his words to become more understandable. "You know—he can do it himself, doesn't use any sort of technology."

"Oh, yes… of course."

"Well, that's quite something. Still, the chances of him being a real _angel… _after all, you're really just a type of alien, isn't that right?" the Doctor questioned, adjusting his bowtie as he spun his chair around in a speedy semicircle to face Thor.

"You… could phrase it that way," the Asgardian allowed. "My family and I are the subjects of legends, though… the humans created those myths based around us, and our powers amount to roughly the same as the gods in their stories…"

"Of course, of course," the Doctor agreed, flapping his hand reassuringly. "No intention to belittle your powers—I'm plenty impressed, don't worry. Impressed by all of you, as a matter of fact." His eyes ran over Bruce, Sherlock, Clint, and Natasha at this. "Even if I've yet to see what a couple of you have to offer, I'm sure that this SHIELD wouldn't have pulled you in for no reason at all."

Bruce let out a low, apparently helpless laugh and shook his head slightly. "You'd be surprised."

"Dr. Banner has as much to offer as any of us," Natasha contradicted, her voice almost stern as the Doctor glanced back and forth between the two of them, interest evident in his wide-eyed face. "Just not as good of control over it."

"Meaning?"

Bruce's fingers began to run over each other at an even more obsessive pace, and he looked away, staring at the wall. "It's this… condition… I had a bad encounter with some gamma rays, and then…"

Luckily for him (and not so much for the overly inquisitive Doctor), his speech was cut off by a loud shuffling from outside the door. He and Thor stepped away quickly, just as it burst open to reveal three other men, all in a somewhat bedraggled state. Two of them—one masked, one with a shock of blonde hair, both clad in classic superhero suits—were gripping the arms of the third, whose outfit was rather unremarkable in comparison to the shining red metal and skintight spangled fabric of the others. His eyes, a stunningly bright azure, were wild and desperate, and his chest heaving rapidly under his dirty tan trench coat. A torn blue tie hung from his neck, just as mud-splattered as the rest of him.

"I don't belong here," he was insisting repeatedly, his voice low and scratchy, tight with franticness. "Please, I don't—I don't know what you want me for, but this isn't—"

"We told you, we need your help," the man in the mask sighed impatiently. His voice was slightly tinny under the smooth plate of gold metal, but still surprisingly audible. "And it has to do with Sam Winchester."

"I don't have any affiliation with the Winchesters. They… they parted ways with me for the final time several months ago."

"But you're our biggest chance of dealing with them," was the sharp retort.

"Castiel?" Natasha asked, rising. Her fingers trailed along the table, and her eyes were wide and curious, though she managed to maintain a mostly even expression. The dark-haired man glanced over at her, ragged breaths heaving out of his parted lips. It was clear by the confusion in his sapphire-shaded eyes that he recognized his name perfectly well.

"Castiel," the Doctor repeated. "The angel?"

Castiel's stare swerved around to face him, and he looked to be on his last legs as he forced out more words. "Please. I have no idea who you are, I want nothing to do with you, just let me go."

"You're a being unlike any I've ever encountered," the Doctor replied wonderingly, whipping out his sonic screwdriver and giving it a quick buzz up and down a blank-faced Castiel's figure. "You really are an… an _angel. _You should be able to zap yourself right out of here."

"I…" He hesitated for a moment, biting back a wince and locking his gaze with the Doctor's. For the time being, he seemed to be attempting to ignore everyone else in the room, even the two costumed men who were still clutching his arms. "They found me… just taken out of a battle, I… a brother of mine, a rogue…" Panting, he shifted his shoulders enough for his coat to fall open slightly, revealing a gash torn down his side. Rather than bleeding, the edges of the laceration gleamed with a faint white light, as though lit from within. Castiel squeezed his eyes shut, and the Doctor tucked away his screwdriver, feeling an expression of horror flit over his face.

"Let him go," the Time Lord demanded, a rare harshness filling his tone. "Can't you see he's hurt?"

The masked man glanced at the other, whose face was streaked with sweat. The latter gave a brief nod, and they released Castiel's arms simultaneously. The angel managed to stumble forward a couple of steps before sinking to the ground, his breath coming quicker and his hands thrown out to catch his fall.

Immediately, the Doctor kneeled beside him, reaching out to run a hand along his shoulder. "Can we help?" he questioned intently. "Will you be alright?"

"I can… heal, if given… time to myself," Castiel stuttered. He kept his eyes down, unmistakable shame showing in his face. It was clear that he hated to be seen at such a low, and the Doctor glanced up, face closed over by the protectiveness that any of his companions could easily associate with him caring for wounded aliens.

"You just took him straight here? Couldn't you see that he was hurt?" he hissed. The iron-suited man reached up to slip off his mask, revealing a scowling, dark-eyed face.

"Who are you, anyways?"

"I'm the Doctor. Haven't you done your research?"

"The alien?"

"Yes, if you want to refer to me that way." Shaking his head in disgust, the Doctor returned his attention to Castiel. As much as he strived to admire humans, sometimes it seemed near-impossible. Here was a man—an angel, perhaps, but as much a man as the rest of them—pulled from the aftermath of what looked like an extremely harsh battle without any regard given to his physical _or _mental state. A more gentle expression softened the Doctor's eyes and mouth as he reached out, sliding his arm around Castiel's back and rising slowly. "I'm going to get you somewhere where you can recover, alright?" he whispered.

"I—I don't…" the angel muttered, but his words were cut off to make way for a rough whimper as the Doctor helped him to his feet. He was shaking at this point, and most definitely wouldn't have been able to support himself on his own.

"Bruce, Thor," said the Doctor, turning to the respective two as he named them. "At least I know that you lot are somewhat reasonable. Where's a place I can take this poor creature to get his strength back?"

"Oh—there should be a room… here," Bruce offered, nudging past the miffed-looking, iron-suited man and gesturing out the door. "I can show you."

"Thanks, mate. Castiel, can you walk?"

The angel gave a strained nod, but the Doctor still didn't retract his support as they exited the room, starting down the hall, which, luckily, was mostly empty. Bruce let them a ways down, speaking over his shoulder as he did so.

"Since SHIELD's still rebuilding, this place is more of a stand-in than anything else, so everything's really bunched together… I'm sure that you're meant to have your own rooms, but for now you can just come to mine. And I am sorry for those two, they really don't know where to draw the line… Tony especially."

"Let me guess," the Doctor growled, "that bloke in the metal getup?"

"That'd be him. He's arrogant and vain and he hates to be wrong, but he's not all that bad once you get to know him, promise. Right here." He pushed open the nearest door on the left side of the silver hall, and held it open as the Doctor gently limped Castiel inside. By now, the angel was quivering like a leaf, and he let out a sigh of gratitude as they reached the edge of the small, white-sheeted bed in the corner of the mostly empty little room. He half-collapsed onto the mattress, his hand slipping from the Doctor's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, staring up at the ceiling and raising a hand to his injured side. The diamond-hued light shone through his fingers—to the Doctor, at least, it looked slightly brighter than it had moments earlier. "I am not usually so…" A cough interrupted his words, and the Doctor extended a hand, placing it firmly on Castiel's shoulder.

"Don't try to talk. Is there anything else that we can do to help you? Just nod yes or no."

The angel gave his head a small shake, and managed to get out a couple more weak words despite the Doctor's instruction otherwise. "…Thank you."

"No need to thank me, it's my job. How long will you need?"

"A couple of hours…"

"Then I'll be back then. Just relax, alright? Nobody's going to force you into anything, I promise." With that, the Doctor rose up, giving Bruce a quick nod as he paced out the door. The other man followed him, shutting the door gently.

"Do you think he'll really be okay?" Bruce questioned as they started back to the conference room. "He seemed… badly hurt."

"I trust his word… and I have to hope." A slow grin touched the Doctor's lips, curling them upwards. "What a _phenomenon, _though. Did you see that wound? _Glowing. _He really is an angel—well, whatever _that _means…" He was getting more excited by the second. Heroes and geniuses were remarkable enough, but _angels… _that was a whole new level.

By the time they re-entered the room, Clint, Natasha, Thor, Sherlock, Tony, and the yet unnamed blonde man were all seated along the long table, with a dark-skinned, black-clothed man, scarred face partially covered by a single eye patch, standing at the head. The Doctor hurried up to him eagerly as Bruce slipped into an open chair next to Tony.

"Director Fury, at a guess?"

The man gave a sharp nod. "Agent Barton here was just telling me about how you decided to take it upon yourself to go play doctor with our angel."

"He's not _your _angel, Director, and I can promise that I do a hell of a lot more than 'play' doctor."

"So I've heard. _The _Doctor, don't you call yourself? A time-traveling alien who can change his very appearance… SHIELD's been interested in you for a long time… it's good to finally have you on our side." Something almost like kindness flashed in his single deep brown eye, and he finally accepted the Doctor's extended hand, shaking it in a quick, professional way. "I don't blame you for wanting to make sure that Castiel was taken care of, but from now on, if you agree to help us, you have to understand that your orders come from me, and only me."

"But I haven't agreed to help," the Doctor pointed out, his tone almost humored. "And—no offense intended, Director—what you've shown to me so far isn't very promising."

"Take a seat," Fury sighed, gesturing to the few swivel chairs that were left untouched. Shrugging, the Doctor slipped into one, crossing his legs and bouncing up and down a bit until he managed to reach a comfortable position. Once this was achieved, he laid his hands on the arms of the chair and looked up expectantly at the SHIELD Director, awaiting an explanation.

"It's to do with Harry Saxon," he began slowly, and the Doctor's stomach seemed to plunge to a whole new level of horror. He had already been knocked several levels down from his usual level of lightheartedness, but this was beyond that—he briefly experienced the overwhelming sensation of being immersed in ice-cold water. Externally, his grip on the seat arms tightened, and his jaw the same.

"What about him?"

"He's back," Fury explained, his tone grim. "And that's not all—he's got company. A former enemy of ours—Thor's brother Loki—and Castiel's associate, Winchester."

The Doctor squeezed his eyes shut, raising a hand to stab at the headache pounding in his forehead.

_He's back. He's back. He's back._

But how was that _possible? _The Master was gone—gone permanently this time, forced into the Time War… _locked _there. It was impossible that he could come back.

At least, it was supposed to be.

Of course the Doctor couldn't leave this alone now. He had no choice… no choice at all. "I'll help you," he murmured, his voice as thick as if his tongue was made of cotton. "I know him better than anyone… Saxon isn't his real name. He's like me… an alien like me. He calls himself… the Master."

_He's back. _


	5. Hell

**A/N** _And now for a random side chapter with the four lovely villains. This is now my most alerted story, so thanks so much! Also, I was having POV issues with this one- it was supposed to be from the Master's perspective at first, but it just sort of became _

**Thanks to** _SuperwholockianAssbutt, Basia Orci, BloodyRosie, magsofthemuses, and Anita Simons__  
_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own the Avengers/Doctor Who/Supernatural/Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER V. **_Hell_

"He's back," Loki breathed, his pale eyelids slipping open. As if on cue, the heavy double doors to the mansion burst open, and in strode Lucifer, wiping his hands off on his pants and staining them with something that looked suspiciously dark red.

"You took care of this lovely house's owners?" Moriarty checked, finally halting the slow pacing motion that he'd been maintaining for the past hour.

Lucifer nodded, grinning widely. "They'll no longer be a problem."

Something twisted in the Master's stomach, as though he couldn't decide whether to be admiring or nauseated. He settled for the former, and let an easy smile spread over his own face. "Thank God, Jim's been walking back and forth like a caged Ood ever since you left."

"Oh, don't thank God," the taller man murmured, casting his eyes down and bringing his voice down to a velvet murmur. "I can fully assure you that He has nothing to do with it whatsoever."

"Right," he amended hastily, cursing his slip-up. "Those idiotic human expressions, you know, they work themselves into your mind… take hold…" The drums gave a particularly fierce bout of heavy percussion, and his voice trailed off into a hiss as he lifted a hand to his temple, pressing down furiously against the rhythmic stabs of pain.

"The pounding again?" Loki inquired softly, from his position in one of the many armchairs spread over the wide living room. He looked notably better than he had when they first arrived a day ago, with his skin and hair clean and his eyes bright. He'd grudgingly agreed to wear one of the dark suits found in the wardrobe of the mansion's owner—_former owner, _ as Lucifer's bloodstained hands proved—and it did fit him rather nicely, though it was nothing, of course, in comparison to the extravagant green-and-gold armor that he always preferred.

"Always," the Master snarled back. Lucifer looked on in interest, and Loki seemed almost pitying, but Moriarty did nothing more than snort, beginning to move back and forth again, his polished shoes pressing meaningfully into the thick red carpet. At this, the Master growled in frustration, and the human psychopath glanced up with a shark-like grin, his dark eyes cold as stone.

"You always expect me to be so _impressed_ by your little drumming story," he purred, his Irish accent especially lilting and girlish. "But truly… I don't think you have any idea what it means for real demons to plague your mind." He glanced almost teasingly towards Lucifer at this particular word choice, before his penetrating gaze flicked back to the Master. "Tearing at it," he breathed, the tip of his tongue curling around his teeth, "ripping it apart until there's nothing left but the shadows and the blood… oh, you have _no _idea, _Time Lord._"

The Master swallowed heavily, holding the fierce stare for a few more seconds before finally breaking it away. Loki and Lucifer were never a concern for him—they were his equals, at best, at least in his mind—but there was an undeniable sort of darkness to Moriarty that didn't even begin to touch the rest of them. Perhaps it was the chilling fact that he had no _motivation _whatsoever to be the way that he was. For Loki and Lucifer, it was their families, and for the Master, it was the Doctor… but James Moriarty's evil was entirely self-contained. And he was proud of it. He flaunted it, advertised it with that horrible predatory smile and the shiver-inducing, coal-black eyes… he was a _monster, _the only human one of them all but absolutely the most terrifying.

And yet, naturally, this meant that the Master could never help but admire him.

"Oh, we've all had our experience with those creatures in our mind," Lucifer chuckled, breaking the silence and clapping his wide hands together. "The gnawing ones are the worst… wouldn't you say? The ones that _itch…_"

An involuntary shudder ran down the Master's spine, because Lucifer's words struck home. It was true—he knew exactly what the Devil was referring to. _The ones that itch… _the ones that caused the most devastation, the goriest murders, the fiercest attacks… the ones that prowled in the darkest corners of his brain, making their home amongst the drumbeats, always refusing to leave unless he satisfied them with death and power… he found himself nodding in agreement, and Loki and Moriarty each let out small, acknowledging noises. All four of the men in the room—the feared, the rejected, the betrayed, and the twisted—had a relationship with those awful mind creatures that Lucifer spoke of.

None of them were sane, at this point; most of them knew that, a couple treasured it, and not a single one cared.

"So, plans." Lucifer strode over to the nearest chair, settling back with a long sigh. His vessel's lanky frame could hardly fit on the seat, which was clearly designed for a more petite figure, and he ended up tilting his neck back, over the far-too-short headrest. "I know that each of us have at least one person that we want dead, and, as far as we know, they're all plenty capable of defending themselves if we're stupid enough to barge in without any form to our actions."

Moriarty's lips twitched. The Master knew that anything that could be considered a specific target for him was already dead—at this point, all he cared about was initiating as much destruction as possible.

Again: admirable.

"Well, if you're going to be so old-fashioned about it," Moriarty drawled, "think about it this way. Do they have any weaknesses? Anything that we could use to draw them in?"

"Oh, good," Lucifer snickered, conjuring a glass of wine and sipping at it—a habit that the other three had grown used to. "Traps… traps are always effective. Dean Winchester, the man I mentioned before… he is awfully vulnerable right now. Living with one Lisa Braeden and her son… it would be all too easy to bring him here, practically effortless. And if we had a way to let my dear little brother know… Castiel," he explained impatiently at the others' puzzled glances. "The angel I mentioned. He's lived for far too long. But Dean is his weakness… if he knows that we have him, he'll come… oh, he'll come. Even if he knows that it's suicide."

"You want to kill this angel of yours?" Loki clarified.

"Absolutely. It's quite simple, really—holy fire. Just fry him up, he won't know what hit him… perhaps we can stretch it out just a _little, _though," he allowed indulgently, taking another slow gulp of the wine. "If he could see Dean die… oh, that would be perfect."

"So that's simple enough," Moriarty conceded, rolling his neck slightly as if to ease a cramp in it. "Abduct Winchester, summon Castiel, kill them one at a time. Master, what about yours?"

_Mine. The Doctor. _"Likewise… if his friends are in danger, he'll come without hesitation… he usually has a pretty girl or two following him around. His 'companions,' he calls them. But his TARDIS, his time machine, it travels constantly. They could be anywhere in all of space and time…"

"Do you know anything about his current companion, then?" Lucifer inquired.

"Last time I knew, he didn't have any specific ones at all… Wilfred Mott was the only person he seemed to be dragging about, and it was clear that that old man wasn't going to last long. It could be anyone."

"Well, aren't you horribly helpful?" Moriarty snorted sarcastically, an irritated scowl creeping over his pale features. "Loki?"

"The Avengers…" The god's teeth clenched and unclenched for several seconds as he stared at nothing, an expression of uncontained anger shadowing his face and stretching his jaw. "Anything that can draw their attention… they'll come to. Anything big. If they know that I'm alive, they'll be here in _hours… _they're… powerful, though." He winced strongly, eyes slitting with the exaggerated expression. "There are too many of them, they're too strong… I had an _army _last time, and they still managed to come out on top… just the six of them…"

"What _is _so great about these Avengers of yours?" Lucifer asked. "You've made it sound as though they're human…"

"Barely."

"They're… they call themselves _superheroes,_" the Master offered. He and Moriarty were familiar with Loki's nemeses, since they'd all been a shaky alliance long before Lucifer came into the picture. Before they were torn apart, one at a time—the Master first, returned to the time lock by the Doctor, then Loki, in the custody of his victorious brother, and finally Moriarty, put out of commission by his own bullet on the roof of St. Bart's. They owed it all to Lucifer, really, for being able to bring the Master back, set the first events in motion to ensure that they'd all be pulled together once more. "Like he said, there are six of them…"

"One of them is my brother," Loki interjected, clearly impatient with the Master's explanation. "Thor. His abilities are generally the same as mine, but… he has an… advantage." He spat out the word as though disgusted with it. "A weapon, a hammer. Mjölnir. He wields it all too proudly… but with good reason. Its strength is remarkable, and Thor himself is the only one capable of holding it."

"A hammer?" Lucifer repeated, looking all too entertained. "Really, I can't help but believe that won't be _too _much of a problem… that sort of weapon is known to be clumsy."

"Not in his hands. And he's not the only one… five others. Four of them are entirely human—a man in an iron suit that allows him absurdly advanced capabilities… another, propelled by a chemical giving him incredible strength… one with the eye of a hawk, the most accomplished archer in any world… a woman, too, just the one—agile as the spider that her title is derived from. And the monster, only feigning humanity at this point… it happens whenever he's provoked by anger; he'll grow, transform into a beast… massive and invincible, and such a bright _green…_" His eyes were fogging over at this point, becoming distant with what were undoubtedly bad memories.

"A practical god, a few advanced humans, and some sort of screwed-up hybrid," Lucifer summarized lazily. "You seem to forget that you've managed to swing an alliance with someone more powerful than all of those combined."

"Yourself?" Loki questioned, his tone layered with bitter contempt.

"You got it," the fallen angel chuckled. "You haven't seen much of what I have to offer yet, I'll admit, but once you do…" He whistled lowly, grinning. "These guys aren't going to stand a chance, don't you worry."

"I should warn you not to underestimate them," the dark-haired god growled. "That was my… my mistake."

The Master watched the budding conflict with a slight knot of anxiety in his chest, while Moriarty looked purely entertained. He knew that this was the danger of bringing the four of them together—every one of them wanted to rule, to be on top. Ambition was a key motivation for each of them, and forcing them into an alliance was like building a bomb—immensely, immeasurably dangerous, but also an amazing weapon if planted correctly. He just had to hope desperately that their friction didn't set one another off before they had the chance to do such a thing, to destroy each of their targets.

"None of us will be underestimating anyone," he cut in swiftly, overriding Lucifer's disbelieving scoff. "I think we've _all _learned what happens when we do that. Jim was dead, Loki was imprisoned, I was time-locked, and Lucifer was caged. We've all been through defeat. None of us would have gotten out without the others, and none of us are ever going to sink that low again. Agreed?"

Loki gave a sharp, reluctant nod, and Lucifer shrugged in a grudgingly acceptant way. Moriarty's grin just widened. The Master decided not to stretch himself by trying to pacify the human psychopath, and instead settled for stepping backwards, settling into his own armchair. Now Moriarty was the only one left standing, but he looked all too comfortable with it, his head held high in an indisputably superior manner.

"So, boys," he purred, once the silence had lasted long enough for them all to adjust. "It looks like the objective that's easiest for us to reach is darling Lucifer's. Dean Winchester, is that right? Living with some Lisa Braeden?"

Lucifer nodded easily. "It'll be simple enough to get him, don't you worry. And then once he's brought in… oh, it'll rip his _heart _out to recognize me…" His lips curved into a cruel smile that could only be described as—well—devilish, and he ran a slow hand over his shoulders. "Oh, he'll _recognize _me, alright… but not for the man that I am."

"Your vessel," the Master realized aloud. He'd never given much thought to the young, dark-haired human man that Lucifer possessed, but now came to the conclusion that it would surely take an incredibly strong human to host such a tremendous being.

"Sam Winchester," Lucifer confirmed delightedly, snapping his wine glass into nonexistence and holding his arms out as if to display them proudly. "Dean's brother, supposedly dead—that is, trapped in the Cage with me. But I'm not in there any more, thanks to the Master here… and neither is he. _Much _more comfortable of a fit than the poor man I was stuffed in before… and Sammy is quite an advantage, too. Dean will be so confused… so heartbroken… injured before I even get the chance to lay a finger on him."

"And then?" Loki invited.

"And then… we get him into so much peril that he has no choice but to call his darling Cas to save him. That'll be the fun part… oh, yes. Cutting him… making him scream… because he'll want to keep his little boyfriend out of danger, that's for sure. He knows how much my brother cares about him… knows that he'll come without hesitation if he knows Dean to be in danger. After a while, he won't be able to bear it any longer… he'll lash out internally, reach for help whether or not he consciously wants to… and then, boom, we bring out a little bit of holy fire, we've got one fried angel off our hands. Dean himself will be easy enough to deal with once that's over… I'm sure I'll be able to find a creative way to end him."

"And then we can move onto the Doctor," the Master agreed slowly, nodding his agreement. "Get the easiest out of the way first so that we can focus our attention on our more challenging targets."

"Oh, I just might have bigger fish to deal with once these boys are out of the picture," Lucifer corrected him lowly, his voice light but laced with shadows of danger. "Don't get me wrong, it's been all sorts of fun with you guys, but I do have a responsibility to get back to… the Winchesters are my foremost problem, along with Castiel. After their deaths, I suppose my best choice is do go back to my children… _demons_," he defined with a sneer as Loki quirked an eyebrow.

"You'd do that?" the Norse god snarled. "You'd have us help you, then turn on us so easily…? You only just implied that you'd be willing to assist me in bringing down the Avengers!"

"I'll be willing to do _you_ a favor or two if you want," Lucifer amended, turning to the Master. "After all, I _am _allowed to be grateful… and it is nice to be able to stretch myself, since you brought me out of that despicable Cage. That's something that no man can do lightly. You'll be able to call me in when you need me, at least for a couple of times. I'll gladly assist you with your attempts to bring down your own enemies… it'll be quite easy for me, I can promise you that. Mr. Moriarty, as well—I do appreciate your style," he murmured to Moriarty out of the corner of his mouth. The human's dark eyes glinted pleasurably in response, and the Master grinned, leaving Loki with an expression of indignant infuriation.

"And what of me?" he demanded. "Am I inconsequential enough to not earn your favor in this respect?"

"Well, you are _awfully _whiny," Lucifer said with a shrug, his stare cold. Loki stared back speechlessly, anger brewing in his eyes like pale, blue-tinted green storm clouds. His lips were parted in a frustrated gape, but it was clear that he had learned his position at this point, and he didn't dare to speak up to Lucifer, settling instead to silently bristle with suspended anger.

"Good… that's smart, not pressing your luck," the Devil chuckled. He finally snapped his gaze away from the cowering god and brought his hands together in a sharp clap, rubbing them together with excitement. "Now, I say we get down to business as soon as possible. You three needn't be involved in the whole Winchester deal if you don't want to—ooh, though I might want a bit of Mr. Moriarty's advice on how to squeeze cooperation out of my vessel's big bro… I have the feeling that he might be rather well-versed in that particular area."

"That would be absolutely correct," Moriarty breathed back, and the Master couldn't help but pity this Dean Winchester man, whoever he was. He'd have the world's most dangerous human psychopath after him, as well as the very Devil himself.

He'd better be ready for Hell.


	6. Capture

**A/N** _This chapter and the next one are rather Supernatural-centric, so bear with me. Just to remind you, the setting in the SPN verse here is post season 5, when Dean's living with Lisa and Ben. And one more thing: I've started posting a Wholock story on this account as well; overall, it's longer than this one, and is going to be a bit darker and more complex (more character deaths/shippy stuff/etc). The title is 'When We Start Killing.' If you're interested, please do take a look!_

**Thanks to** _Basia Orci__  
_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own the Avengers/Doctor Who/Supernatural/Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER VI. **_Capture_

"I'm taking Ben down to the park," Lisa announced, poking her head into the living room for a brief moment. Her dark eyes were wide and her lips curled upwards with laughter, face framed by soft waves of deep brunette hair. "You want to come with?"

"Mom!" came an exasperated call from what sounded like the kitchen. "I can go myself, you know! I don't need you to come with, let alone Dean."

"Should I be offended?" Dean half-joked, grinning back at Lisa and raising his voice so that Ben could hear. The only response was a low grumble, and both of the adults chuckled, even as Dean waved his hand dismissively and replied to Lisa's original inquiry. "Nah, I'm fine. You two enjoy yourselves."

"Alright." She stepped fully into the room, and, even as adjusted to it as he'd grown, he couldn't help but admire the slim curvature of her figure, poised in the doorway. "But you're not allowed to just veg out and watch that TV all day, got it?"

"'Course not," he agreed innocently. "I'll go take a walk or something."

"Like hell you will," she muttered, pacing over and bending down over the coffee table. He leaned back into the wide sofa, his arms draped over its back, and scowled when she lifted the TV remote, flicking it off. The sudden absence of the ambient ruckus of a football game made the air feel too still, but moments later the light trill of birds filtered through the open windows, filling the space.

"Hey," he half-objected, but the smile still hadn't faded from his features.

She rolled her eyes, set the remote down. A hand drifted up to tuck a stray strand of dark hair behind her ear. "Really, do try to get out. I should be monitoring you so that you don't turn into one of those fat old curmudgeons."

"I think I'll be fine," he shot back, his tone far from serious. She snorted and stepped back, straightening up and placing a hand on her hip. "Ben, you ready to go yet?"

"I told you, I don't need you to come with!" the boy half-begged. There was a clattering sound, presumably that of him setting silverware onto a plate, then the thud of footsteps, heading not for the living room, but rather the door to the outside.

"Your old mom needs some sun, too!" she insisted, hurrying after her son. Dean watched her leave, a familiar warm tightness pulsating in his chest as the door slammed open and then shut behind them. Once again, the house went quiet, but it was a good quietness, peaceful, of the likes that he'd never experienced back during his hunting days.

His hunting days… a thing of the past, now, disregarding the handgun kept in the drawer of his bedside table (and also the rifle underneath the bed itself). He never expected to use either of the weapons, after all. The smaller of the two was even full of real metal bullets rather than rock salt—in all ways a precaution against material threats, against the robbers and creepers that didn't even exist in Lisa and Ben's picture-book neighborhood.

It was a good life that he had, and he was grateful for it, happy with it. The first few months may have been rocky, but now… now, he couldn't quite imagine anything better.

He sighed and shifted on the couch, gazing at the darkened TV screen for several seconds before heaving himself to his feet. Maybe he really would go for a walk. It couldn't hurt to stretch his legs—just because he had a day off of work didn't mean that he should waste it away indoors. With a stretch and a faint yawn, he pulled himself to his feet, extending his legs slowly and loping around to the kitchen. Ben's plate from lunch had been tossed into the sink on top of the breakfast dishes, the crumbly remains of a PB&J speckling the pale ceramic. Sunlight arched through the window, warm but not stifling, practically inviting Dean outside.

_Fifteen minutes, _he told himself, approaching the door and settling his hand onto the knob. _Fifteen minutes, just around a couple of blocks. Say hi to the neighbors, maybe. That should be enough fresh air to satisfy both you and her. _

It was just as nice as he expected outside—perhaps just a touch hot for June, but still pleasant. He squinted into the sunlight as it rebounded over the light, sparkling squares of cement, dappled with wetness in a few places where the nearby yards' sprinklers tipped beyond the border of their grass. Knowing Ben, he probably would've dashed right through one of the light showers, while Lisa ducked to avoid them. Dean found himself smiling at the image—nothing big, just a small, unobtrusive tilt of the edges of his lips, a crinkling at the corners of his eyes. As family went, they were near-perfect.

He set off in the opposite direction from the park, pacing along steadily with his arms swinging at his sides. A few neighbors waved to him from their gardens or offered comments about the spectacular weather, which he returned cheerily, never stopping to chat for more than a few seconds. It was a comfortable pattern, and he lost track of the time soon enough, until he was sure only of the fact that a good deal more than his allotted minutes had passed. He was just turning, ready to head back, when a voice stopped him.

"Mr. Winchester, isn't it?"

He glanced back immediately, curious—the voice wasn't the type he was used to, but rather accented, British. Standing in the slight shade of a nearby, empty alleyway was a clean-shaven blonde man, dressed smartly with his hands in his pockets. It was clear from his inquisitive brown stare that he'd been the one to speak, and Dean nodded, smiling tightly and hurrying forwards to close the distance between them. The shadows swamping the thin alley were a welcome relief from the sun, which, after this long, was definitely a bit pressing.

"Yeah, it's Dean. You're…?"

"Harry Saxon, I just moved in a ways down," the man explained quickly, holding out a hand, which Dean shook quickly. His voice was warmer now, his eyes brighter. "The neighbors have been saying that you host the best cookouts in the neighborhood."

"Have they?" he chuckled. "Well, that's not my idea, it's Lisa's—uh, my…" His words stumbled slightly at this point. What _was _Lisa, exactly? A little more than a girlfriend, a good deal less than a wife.

"Partner?" Saxon offered, and he nodded gratefully.

"Yeah, exactly. She's a big fan of the whole friendly event thing. Not that I dislike them or anything. I'll make sure to get your name stuck on the guest list next time, if you'd like."

"I'd love that," he agreed. His mouth quirked in the corner, but the expression somehow seemed far from friendly—almost… calculating. Dean blinked, and the cold glint in Saxon's eyes was immediately replaced by geniality, so apparently genuine that he had to owe his previous suspicion to paranoia. There was no need to be dodgy—this was just a new neighbor, eager to get to know the people that he lived nearby. Nothing suspicious about that.

_Not everyone is out to get you. You should be used to that by now. _

"Alright, then, I'll… make sure to mention it to her." He toned the words into a closing statement, glancing over his shoulder. "I should probably be heading back, though… they'll be waiting for me back at home, might want to go out somewhere for lunch…"

"Your family isn't at home," Saxon corrected softly, and his voice had changed entirely, morphed into something low and icy, that gripped Dean's spine instantly with a series of swift chills. He whirled back around, his lips parted. "And Lisa and Ben Braeden already had lunch… I've been keeping an eye on you for a while, now."

"Who the hell are you?" Without thinking, Dean lunged forward, gathered a handful of the man's collar. Saxon's expression remained unperturbed—almost pleased, in a sick, mad way.

"Harry Saxon," he repeated, giving a high laugh that sounded far from sane. "I already told you." His head oscillated slightly as he surveyed Dean, that wicked smile still stretching his lips.

"Then _what _are you?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Saxon taunted. Dean dragged him closer, until their faces were centimeters apart. He'd just have to hope that no one took the time to look in on a random alleyway.

"Oh, trust me, there isn't much I _wouldn't_ believe at this point," he spat.

Saxon surveyed him for the space of about five swift breaths, then shook his head, still not letting his face slip from its maniacal grin, an expression so extreme it looked almost painful to maintain. "Nah, no need for me to tell you… much easier to just let my _friend _do the explaining, when I get you to him…"

"You're not _getting me_ anywhere," Dean snarled, "because I'm not coming with you. I gave up this life, months ago. It's done. I'm done. You got that? So you can scamper back to your boss, whoever—_whatever—_he is, and just tell him to _leave me the hell alone._" With that, he jerked his hand slightly, then shoved it forward, sending Saxon stumbling backwards and crashing into the side of a garage. He flung his arms out, barely catching himself, then slowly raised his eyes to meet Dean's.

He wasn't smiling anymore.

"Oh, you little _bastard,_" he hissed, taking a menacing step forwards. Dean was already swerving on his heel, ready to get out of there, when he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, pulling him back. His feet slipped on the pavement, and then he was being pulled farther into the alley, rammed against a different garage. His head knocked on the thick siding, and stars sprang before his eyes, a heavy ache pulsating through his skull. _Goddammit. _A metallic taste filled his mouth from where he'd accidentally bitten down on his tongue. So many long months with Lisa and Ben had dulled his hunter's reflexes, reduced him to another stupid suburban father figure.

"Son of a bitch," he managed to choke out against Saxon's strangling grip on his throat. He lashed out wildly, his foot colliding with the other man's shin, but such an action provoked only a furious hiss. As much as he struggled, his actions were rewarded only with a sudden fierce stab to his upper arm, right below his shoulder. He yelped and pulled away instinctively from the sharp pain, only to find that he was released all too easily. Surprised by the sudden freedom of movement, he barely managed to stop himself from crashing into the ground, instead maintaining a shaky standing position. Saxon laughed, and the noise was too loud, oddly distorted, pushing in hard on Dean's ears. He tried to clear his inexplicably foggy vision by blinking, but that only managed to cloud it up farther, until the colors of the shady alleyway were swimming before him.

"You… _ass_," he gasped, but the words were slurred. It was suddenly all too obvious what that prod in his arm had been, and his fingers flew to it desperately, running over the sore spot as though such an action could prevent the drug from coursing through his veins. His legs were weak, trembling, and everything suddenly seemed a long ways off. He blinked once more, heavily, and his eyes didn't even manage to open all the way again before the world swerved and there was cement against his hands, colliding with the side of his head and rendering everything dark.

* * *

"…Here we go, wakey-wakey…"

A familiar voice, one that didn't belong here—wherever here was—and something brushing under his nose. Those were the first two things that Dean was aware of, and it took a long time for the other pieces to fall into place—for several more seconds, in any case, he felt nothing but a stinging sensation down his nasal passages and an angry throb against the back of his head. Then, slowly, he realized that his neck was hanging at an incredibly painful angle, and rope was cutting into his wrists, heavy and scratching. Groaning faintly, he managed to lift his heavy head, feeling it loll slightly as he blinked his eyes open. Gray mist seemed to linger around the corners of his vision, and he just barely managed to see a long arm pulling something away from his nose—_probably some sort of ammonia, _he recognized, thinking of how abruptly he woke up.

Slowly, the shadows before him solidified, and he managed to pull together the most basic facts he could—he was in a darkened room, low ceiling, darkened wood walls, drapes over the windows. There was a bitter taste in his mouth and an unrelenting pain in his wrists, and he was slumped against a wall, his neck aching from its former awkward droop.

Standing in front of him was Sam.

And it was so insane, so unbelievable, that he had to force his eyes shut again, run the facts through his mind, try to rearrange them into a way that somehow made sense.

_Sam's dead. Or at least in the Cage, with Lucifer. He's gone. Gone. You live with Lisa and Ben now, you're done hunting… this has got to be some goddamned crazy dream or something…_

"I know what you're thinking," Sam chuckled, folding his hands behind his back and beginning to pace, calmly back and forth. Jesus, it was his _voice, _that _same fucking voice, _the voice that had been beside him his whole life, that voice that he'd heart laughing and shouting and crying and whispering… that voice that he'd tried so hard to forget, but never quite managed to… _that voice._ "That this is impossible…" He was wearing the same clothes as he had on that last day, Dean realized numbly. A sour taste was rising in his throat, and he barely managed to speak through his shaking lips.

"M'gonna throw up…"

"Ooh, do try to hold back from that. Vintage carpet and all." Sam's eyes were dark, far darker than they should've been, and there was a _tone _to his voice, one that didn't belong… twisted. Cruel. He came to a halt, standing directly in front of Dean, and smirked down at him. _Smirked. _

"Sammy…" He couldn't talk. It came out too weak, far too weak, like a half-realized whisper. "Please… how… why…"

"Sammy?" the taller man snorted back. "Nice try. Are you really that naïve? That _stupid?_"

He realized the truth, then, and more waves of heat and sickness rolled over him, so intense that he thought for an instant he was going to pass out again before he managed to secure a grip on his thoughts.

_Lucifer._

Not Sam, and it only it him at this point how stupid he'd been to ever imagine that his little brother _was _back. Because of course he was gone… of course he wasn't going to return.

_Idiot, Dean, you're always such a fucking idiot. _

"How the hell did you…" he mumbled, the words slurring slightly from the effects of the drug. "You were trapped, I… we gave everything to trap you…"

"I don't have time for explanations," Lucifer murmured delicately, inspecting the back of his nails. His tongue ran over his bottom lip in an almost thoughtful manner. "Really, I can't think that you'll live long enough to find them useful."

"You're going to kill me?" Dean was distressed enough to let out a sharp laugh, which fell into the air like a shard of glass, piercing it effortlessly. _After all this, after all our resistance, it just boils down to this—him sending some stupid cohort to kidnap me, taking me into a dark room, and just ending it? _And yet, despite himself, he couldn't quite find the strength to make any effort towards resisting his approaching death. He was tired… so tired.

Ready for it to be over.

"Not quite," Lucifer murmured. "Rest assured that you will die… but not yet. There's something I need you to do for me, first…"

"If you really believe that I'll do _anything at all _for you, you son of a bitch, then you really are ignorant."

Lucifer rolled his eyes and shook his head patronizingly, the motions horribly out-of-place on Sam's features. It was bad enough that the damn Devil was back, but the fact that he had to use Sam… that was too much. Just too much.

"I don't think you'll do anything _willingly,_" he growled. "Though such a thing would help us both out a good deal, I think… no, you're too pathetic for that. I do have to be… forceful, I'm afraid." Seemingly out of nowhere, he was holding a knife, the long blade glinting in the low light cast by a few oil lamps perched around the corners of the room. He turned it over thoughtfully, and Dean's mouth went dry at the sight of the sharp edge, hair-thin and tapering to a near-invisible point. His lungs were heaving back and forth, and he tried to scoot away, but his roped hands seemed to be tied to something behind him, attaching him to the wall.

"Let's start easy." Lucifer crouched down beside him and held the knife up to the side of his face in an almost gentle manner, so that it pressed a thin, straight line of pain into the skin. He couldn't tell if he imagined the hot liquid streaking down to his chin, but, rather or not it was material at the moment, it undoubtedly would be soon enough. "I'm going to ask you to do something for me, something very simple."

The knife dug in harder, and this time there was no mistaking the disgustingly warm droplets that leaked from the stinging cut.

"_Summon Castiel."_


	7. Blood

**A/N** _Torture scene, more or less! Fun, fun, fun. _

**Thanks to** _Basia Orci and AlbanNeji__  
_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own the Avengers/Doctor Who/Supernatural/Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER VII. **_Blood_

_I have to get out of here._

Those words pounded in Castiel's mind, intent and desperate, overcoming everything else in a suffocating cloud of anxiety, fear of the oppressively sanitary hallways, of the armed guards and the men in their strange suits, the two-hearted creature who had led him to this room… everything was so foreign, so strange, and Cas could barely breathe through his terror.

Who were these people, and how could they possibly be powerful enough to _find _him, to bring him here…? He had to get away. Gritting his teeth, he pulled his fingers slowly away from the angel-blade stab wound above his waist. The light was beginning to shine a bit dimmer, to his relief, but it would still take a good deal of his energy to travel—much more than he could afford.

Any minute, though, those men were going to be back…

Squeezing his eyes shut, he forced himself to concentrate. He had to get out of here, and he could heal perfectly well out of this building—perhaps even better, since he'd be away from the stress. And if his powers ended up not being up for the journey… well, it would probably be painful. But he'd try not to think about that.

Where would he go, though? There was no place he could call his home, not at this point. Nobody who would welcome him. Except for… just _maybe…_

He'd watched Dean go back to the Braedens' house. He knew that he lived there now.

Focusing all the scraps of his energy securely on that thought, Cas twisted, forcing himself through space and biting back against the strain it put against both his vessel and his being. The teleportation seemed to take longer than usual, but, soon enough, he found himself stumbling onto the sidewalk outside of the house. It was late evening, the low sun setting the mostly abandoned street aglow in a wash of fiery orange. Exhaustion swept over him in a fierce, strong wave, and his legs shook as he made his way towards the door, gratefully leaning on the side of the house and knocking rapidly.

It took several seconds for a response, during which he let his eyes drift shut and tried to hold his spinning head together. The injury near his stomach was throbbing worse than ever, and he knew that he wouldn't be able to stay upright much longer without resting it. Thankfully, the door opened just then, and he was greeted by a gasp of shock.

"Lisa… Braeden," he coughed, catching sight of the dark hair and wide eyes.

"Who are you?" she whispered, sounding horrified. "What—are you hurt?"

"Mom, is it him?" a younger voice called out from farther in the house. That boy… _Ben, _Cas remembered. Dean had seemed awfully fond of him.

"No—Ben, go to your room," Lisa instructed firmly, tossing the words over her shoulder. There was a series of thuds and grumbles as the boy presumably ascended a set of stairs, and the woman turned back to Cas, her lips pressed tight together with concern. "Here… come in," she murmured, stepping back.

He managed to limp inside the house, keeping a hand on the wall. Gently, she looped an arm around his shoulders and helped him into the living room, making sure he was settled onto the wide, white couch before standing back. She was biting lightly at her lower lip, eyes running swiftly over Cas as he settled back into the cushions, now holding both hands to the bloodless wound in an attempt to block the white light straining out from it.

"Who are you?" she questioned, sounding wary for the first time.

"A… a friend of Dean Winchester's."

"Dean?" Her gaze sharpened, and her voice gained intensity. "Do you know where he is?"

"Where…?" Something bitter and awful slipped into Cas's stomach as comprehension dawned on him, and he had to force out the next words, unwilling to confront the apparent reality. "Isn't he meant to be living here?"

"He disappeared several hours ago," Lisa replied, glancing away. "I'm sure it's nothing, but… well… Ben and I just went down to the park, that's all, and then when we came back an hour later he was gone… I'm so afraid that he went off on one of his hunts again…" She cleared her throat quickly and forced a tight smile onto her face. "But I suppose you don't know about that, of course not."

"I do," Cas corrected, his voice rasping in his throat. "I… I know Dean's occupation very well."

Her eyebrows flew together. "Then… do you have any idea what could have taken him? Not—not to assume that he was taken or anything," she amended quickly; "it's just that… I can't shake the feeling that something bad is going on… probably just paranoia, though. He'd only just begun to settle in, you know…?"

Horror was pulsing steadily through the veins of Cas's vessel now. _Sam Winchester, _that's what the SHIELD men had said. Sam, back on Earth… but that wasn't possible. It couldn't be.

Not unless Lucifer had come with him.

"I… I think I know who has him," Cas breathed, straining his senses to search for Dean. He could feel a faint pull, not too far away… barely there, but still burning, still pulsing. "He's weak." Then he was on his feet, clenching his jaw tightly against the sting of the stab wound and fending off the concerned hand that Lisa offered as he tripped over his feet and tried to stumble forward.

"Listen," she said urgently, "you seem a bit… out of sorts, you should sit down…"

"No time. Thank you… for your help," he managed to get out, before forcing himself through another transportation. Moments later, he found himself crouching forward, his head hanging and his palms and knees pressing into dusty carpet. He coughed forcedly, his head spinning in a thousand directions at once. It was stupid, he knew, to try and go after Dean in his injured state—incredibly stupid. It was risky enough summoning up the strength to go to Lisa's house, and that was only so that he could get _help—_he hadn't imagined that something else entirely would end up pulling him on a whole new exerting chase. And now he was here—where was here, anyways? Straining against his nausea, he managed to look up, across the shadowy room, and straight into the horrified pine-green eyes of Dean Winchester.

The hunter was backed up against a wall, presumably tied there somehow, with his arms behind his back and his legs splayed over the carpet. Several crimson streams ran down his cheeks and chin, marring his usually smooth features and twisting them into an expression of utter, uncharacteristic _terror_—or maybe that was a result of the sight of Cas, half-lying on the floor yards away from him.

"No," he gasped out, blood trickling between his pale lips. "I… I didn't…"

The shadows nearby him stirred, then slowly turned around, revealing themselves to be a familiar figure—_Sam, _only it wasn't Sam, it was Lucifer—it had to be, because only Lucifer would look at Cas with such a mad glint in his eye, such a sickening smile on his face… not to mention the long knife grasped in his hands, even more blood running down it, spreading over the handle and staining his fingers.

"Well, looks like you can be cooperative after all, hm?" he shot at Dean, laughing lightly before rising up to his full height. Cas made to do the same, but ended up tripping and collapsing fully to the floor, the carpet soft and thick against his cheek. The damned stab wound… it would have been nothing, it would have been _trivial, _if not for the extra stress induced by the bizarrely outfitted men back at SHIELD, and now this… tremors of agony radiated out from the injury, keeping him on the ground, and Lucifer's hand drifted out slowly, gripping his shoulder and forcing him up. A pained groan escaped his lips, and he faintly heard shuffles and struggles from the corner where Dean was bound.

"Don't touch him!" the hunter cried, his voice a good deal higher than Cas was used to hearing it. The angel held his breath as Lucifer's face swam into view before him, a gleeful expression spread across it.

"Oh, and you're already weakened, aren't you…?" His fingers probed down by Castiel's injured hip, causing him to spasm unwillingly and release a few soft whimpers. "Just a nick from some tiny fight, I'd imagine… no matter, you'll be feeling real pain soon enough." As if to reinforce his words, he jabbed suddenly, sharply, prodding at the wound. The pain this time was flamingly fierce, and Cas choked on his own shriek, forcing it back down his throat, unwilling to release it and concern Dean any farther.

The hunter was already worked up enough as it was—all of his usual cool was abandoned, and he was practically shouting from his corner. "Hey, you fucking Devil douche!" he roared, fury propelling his words. "How about you stop bullying the little kids and try hurting someone your own size?"

"I do hope you're not implying _yourself _to be someone 'my own size?'" Lucifer questioned, pulling back and glancing over his shoulder in bemusement. The tension drained from Cas's back, and he let himself slip back onto the floor, releasing a low sigh. His head began to pound, so fiercely that he could barely make out the next words spoken by his captor.

"After all, as utterly pathetic as Castiel here may be, he's much closer to being my equal than _you _are. As a matter of fact… there's no reason for me to keep you around here anymore…"

A raging throb of denial shot through Cas's body, and it took him a long moment to even realize why he was suddenly so petrified. Then Lucifer's words fully sunk in—_no reason for me to keep you around—_and his mouth went entirely dry, his whole frame trembling with disbelief.

_No. No. No. This can't happen… not like this, not now, please, no._

"No," he muttered, but his voice was barely audible even to his own ears, and Lucifer ignored it entirely as he returned to his position beside Dean, hefting his knife thoughtfully.

"Let's see," the fallen angel drawled slowly, twirling the blade in midair so that the light rebounded off of it. "Slow or fast, which would be more painful… any input, little brother?"

"You'll regret this," was all Cas could muster. "You're up against more than you think, you'll be hunted down… they'll find a way to kill you, they're powerful enough to…"

"'They?'" Lucifer repeated, turning sharply so that his profile was starkly outlined against the faint glow of an oil lamp. "You have allies, really? I never would have expected that, not from little Mr. Rogue Angel…"

"I do," he got out. The truth was almost certainly unwise to be disclosing, but he couldn't bring himself to care, not about SHIELD or any of that, not when Dean was in danger. Any means that he had of distracting Lucifer were utterly worth the sacrifice. "There are lots of them, and they know about you, they're after you…" He coughed again, bracing a shaking hand against the floor and managing to raise himself to a slumped-over sort of sitting position. His vision was fragmented, split apart by the dim lighting, his wooziness, and the dark hair spilling into his eyes, but he managed to pull together the image of Lucifer and Dean, hold it in his mind as motivation.

"I don't believe you," Lucifer shot back, but it was easy enough to detect the layer of fear underneath the casual teasing in his voice.

"You should," said Cas, his tone bitter. "If you don't… you'll only look like more of an idiot."

"I don't have time for this, angel." Suddenly, there was a hand on his collar, hot and rough, and he was being pulled to his feet. His legs sagged limply underneath him, and he choked against the pull around his neck, unable to muster strength enough to struggle. "Tell me," Lucifer snarled, breath acrid and dry. "What are you talking about? _Who _are you talking about?"

"Put him down!" Dean bellowed, but Cas just gazed serenely into the enraged Devil's eyes, knowing that worse damage could hardly be done at this point. He didn't speak a word.

"Fine. If you're going to be secretive, then I'll get it out of you. This little human has a while to go before he dies… let's test his boundaries. Because you can rest assured, Castiel, that I have no reluctance whatsoever in murdering your little boyfriend, no matter who's after me. Trust me on that."

"Wh—" Before Cas could protest, he was being flung backwards, and then his back and head rammed against the wall with a horrific ferocity. Light and pain shot through every bone in his body, and he thought he might have heard Dean's yell, but if so, it was drowned out by the rush of blood in his own ears. For an undefinable amount of time, his senses were buzzing too hard to register anything but the _pain, _but then, slowly, he managed to get a grip on his surroundings again. He was up against the wall, sprawled over the ground, and there were Dean and Lucifer, in the corner—

Dean. _Dean._

It must have been longer than he'd thought, because there was more blood on him now—soaking the front of his shirt, staining his hair and running down his neck, forehead, cheeks, lips, chin… his eyes were open, but barely, his chest moving in tight, constrained movements, a tiny up-and-down motion that was hardly visible. His mouth moved slightly as his foggy eyes locked with the angel's, framing a single syllable. "…Cas…"

_Dean._

_Dean, I'm sorry._

"You with us, pretty boy?" Lucifer sneered, waving the knife tauntingly. "Ready to tell us about this super-secret organization you've been hinting at, or should we start carving away chunks instead of making clean slices? I think I could go for an eye, you know…"

Cas was too numb, too destroyed to feel the full effects of Dean's state, but he still knew that he couldn't let this happen. Dean was important, the most important thing—more important than anything else, which was why he'd come here in the first place, after all. He couldn't lose Dean, no matter what happened.

He couldn't lose Dean.

And yet he couldn't let Lucifer know anything about the Avengers, either—he knew that. Doing so would put the lives of hundreds at stake, perhaps even thousands—after all, the strange, ragtag group of superheroes that he'd only caught a tiny glimpse of seemed more capable of defeating the Devil than anything else he'd ever encountered, and he knew that Lucifer's ignorance of them was probably their biggest advantage at the moment. He cursed himself repeatedly for letting mention of them slip from his tongue… it was his fault, entirely his fault that he was stuck in this torturous dilemma now.

"Cas," the hunter insisted weakly, "don't you dare do what he says, I'm… I'm fine…" The effect of his words was greatly diminished by the fact that he was speaking through a mouthful of blood, which he took a second to spit onto the carpet, staining the deep maroon a more vivid scarlet.

"Like hell you are," Cas grunted, meeting Lucifer's eyes. He tried to force as much pleading into that gaze as possible—_don't do this to me, you're still my brother, there must be something left in you that sees how unreasonable this is… _but it must not have been strong enough. Either that or Lucifer was utterly beyond even the slightest act of mercy, because he finally stood up, brushing off his sleeves and succeeding only in streaking them with rusty red from his fingertips.

"Alright, then," the Devil hummed to himself, snapping his fingers almost lazily. Out of nowhere, ropes wound around Cas's hands, dragging him to the wall and holding him in place there. Normally, he would have been able to struggle free of them, but the angel had been through far too much in the past few hours to even imagine such a thing. "I think I've got enough blood running to ensure eventual death," he promised in a chillingly amiable way. "So, I suppose I'll just leave the two of you in here, and any time you feel like talking… I'm all ears. Of course…" He chuckled to himself. "Chances are that I'm just going to kill you both anyways after I know everything I have to… nah, chances have nothing to do with it. You're both going to die before the end of tonight. But it could go much quicker if you'd care to let me know who this mysterious backup of yours is." He hesitated by the door to the room, glancing towards Dean. "One more cut would be nice, don't you think?" he murmured softly.

Cas strained against his bonds as his jaw fell open in a wordless protest, but it was too late—already, Lucifer was kneeling one final time, his blade was whipping across Dean's shoulder and tearing the biggest gash yet through his shirt and flesh, a spray of blood shooting through the air. Dean cried out, his voice distorted into a strangled shriek, and Lucifer laughed—a low, velvety sound—before calmly striding out of the room.

"What with that one added on, I'd give you a half hour before the damage is irreversible," he called casually over his shoulder, then shut the dark-wooded door with a loud, harsh bang.


	8. Rescue

**A/N** _And finally back with Sherlock, the Doctor, and the rest of the Avengies. I've been loving all of your feedback so much, thanks a ton! Enjoy!_

**Thanks to** _Basia Orci, piogeo, and angelxofxmine__  
_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own the Avengers/Doctor Who/Supernatural/Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER VIII. **_Rescue_

Back at SHIELD, things were slowly giving way to chaos.

"We never should have taken our eyes off of him," Fury growled, glaring at the empty bed where Cas had been lying minutes before. The Doctor paced nervously about the room, wringing his hands and muttering to himself.

"He was _hurt… _he said he didn't have enough energy for his whole teleportation stunt, he must have been _terrified _to resort to that…"

The rest of the Avengers, including Sherlock, stood uncertainly around the small room. They were all finally up-to-date on the men they were hunting—well, except for the mysterious Sam Winchester. It had been with the intention of getting more information about him that they'd sought Castiel out in the first place, but now he was gone, and they had nothing left to show for it but a pile of tangled sheets and a very frustrated Tony Stark.

"It wasn't _easy _to drag him back," he was grumbling, his still-suited arms folded awkwardly over his metal breastplate and his helmet cradled between them. "You know, struggling the whole way, whining like a bitch, and now he just zips off as soon as we take our eyes off of him…"

"Oh, shut it, will you?" Natasha snapped, swinging around to face him. "You heard the Doctor, he could be hurt somewhere, so just quit ranting about your own problems for once, would you?"

He blinked in indignation, and Clint chuckled from her side. "Nice one, Tasha."

She sighed, looking desperately towards Fury with the hope that he might offer some sort of reason to the situation. His single eye scanned over the restless crowd, then he finally raised his voice, silencing the rest of them.

"Listen up, we're not just going to sit around and wait for him to come back, because he _won't. _This angel is our only possibility of understanding Sam Winchester, and we need a way to get him back. I'll send an agent to his brother's residence, see if he has anything to tell us—"

"Sir." A voice sounded from the doorway, and Natasha stepped aside quickly, along with a few others, to reveal the slim, dark-haired form of Maria Hill. The agent hurried through the parted crowd, stepping to Fury's side and muttering something in his ear. His eye widened, and he nodded to her before turning back to the assembled Avengers.

"There's been another sighting. Winchester is in a mansion just a few miles away from here, and scans show there to be five other people inside, as well—"

"_Five _others?" Steve repeated, disbelieving.

"That's what I said, Rogers. Our chances are that two of them are Loki and the…"

"The Master," the Doctor murmured from where he stood by Castiel's abandoned bed.

"Right. As for the other three… Castiel was weak when we last saw him. There's a large chance that he could have been captured, not just escaped."

"It would take a lot," Sherlock commented lowly. It was the first time he'd spoken up, and it was clear from his careful tone that he'd been thinking over everything quite thoroughly. "The security here is… unlike any other organization I've approached."

"That it is," the Doctor agreed, giving Fury a little congratulatory nod. "I'll admit that I'm impressed, and I've seen quite some defense setups in my time, too."

"Yes, but the people we're dealing with aren't even human," Natasha pointed out. "Doctor, the TARDIS you told us about… it could get in here, couldn't it? Past the security?"

"Well, yes," he admitted, looking almost proud. "But no one can get into her except for me, and the Master hasn't had his own TARDIS for decades. Well, more than decades—it really depends on what timeline you're going with, but in terms of Earth's—"

"We don't know _what _we're dealing with," Fury interrupted loudly as Agent Hill made her way out of the room, her purpose completed. "But there's no question that it's immensely powerful, and we have to allow the fact that it might have found a way to get past our security. If Castiel _is _in the mansion with Winchester—and the chances, as we have to realize, are very high—then our job is to get him back out. That is… _your _job is." With that, he looked over each of them—Natasha, Clint, and Tony by the door, Thor, Tony, and Sherlock along the wall, and the Doctor and Bruce near Castiel's bed. "This is going to be your first team mission."

"Oh, come on, that's ridiculous!" Tony exclaimed. "We hardly even know these two—hell, we don't even know if we're going to be stumbling into Cas or just some big ambush! This could be a suicide mission, and you're just going to send us into it?"

"Mr. Holmes, for one, is staying behind," Fury growled. "No offense is intended, but we believe that your abilities generally lie outside the battlefield," he explained to Sherlock, who didn't seem upset at all. "The same for Dr. Banner, since this mission is meant to be kept as quiet as possible." Bruce's mouth twisted into a bitter smile, and he gave a nod of understanding. "Doctor, your TARDIS is capable of delivering everyone else, isn't it?"

"Absolutely," the Doctor confirmed. "Just give me the exact location of this mansion, and I can take care of it. But… I'd rather not participate in any material violence."

"That's manageable," Fury agreed. "Taking care of the transportation will be enough. The rest of you, Stark, Rogers, Barton, Romanoff, Thor—the actual mission will be your job. You've proven that you work well enough as a team on your own, I don't need to give you explicit instructions, but keep in mind that we're trying to keep this as quiet as possible. To the best of your ability, get inside, grab Castiel if he's there, and come back. Violence is to be avoided except as a last resort." He glared at Tony with these words, who looked almost offended at the subtle accusation.

"What, you think I'm going to—"

"It's painfully clear to all of us that you probably wouldn't flinch at the opportunity to give Loki what you think he deserves, and we can't afford that right now."

"Yeah, alright," Tony grumbled, clearly miffed.

"Then off with you. Doctor, we'll have the coordinates sent directly to your TARDIS computer."

"Your technology can do that?" the Doctor asked, sounding delighted.

"There are lots of things our technology can do that the rest of Earth's can't," Fury confirmed. "Holmes, Banner, be at the conference room in ten minutes. I have things to discuss with you two." He strode from the room, and, after a moment of deliberation, Bruce and Sherlock did the same.

"Alright, this should be simple enough, right?" said the Doctor. "You lot are keeping my TARDIS in here somewhere, so we go and fetch it, follow those coordinates that Director Fury mentioned, then I drop you off, and…" He trailed off and glanced towards Steve, the natural leader of the group, as if waiting for him to finish the sentence.

The super-soldier swallowed, noticed the others' eyes on him, then reluctantly took up the Doctor's train of speech. "Right, if the TARDIS could land inside somewhere… Barton and Romanoff, you two will go and search for Castiel while the rest of us wait in the TARDIS. Hopefully, it'll be easy enough for that to be done, but if you stumble across any trouble, then Thor, Stark, and I will be ready. If something does come up, our only goal is to get out of it alive—anything offensive is practically suicidal. We're not ready for any sort of final battle." His words were steady, resolute. "Everyone got it?"

They all nodded, and Steve looked rather pleased with himself for pulling together such an efficient plan of action. "Okay. Let's do this."

"The TARDIS is still in that little nook just a little ways down the hall, right?" the Doctor asked no one in particular, then dashed out of the room, leaving the others to hurry after him. Natasha and Clint hung around behind the rest. It was an instinctive thing for both of them, to make sure that they didn't have their backs turned to anyone else—even if those other people were allies.

"So," Clint murmured, "you and me again, huh, Tasha? Just like the old days."

"If you say a word about Budapest…" she began briskly, then let the threat trail off into silence, leaving it all the more ominous.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he replied, laughing lowly. She rolled her eyes and forced herself not to smile, instead picking up her pace as the group rounded a corner and the Doctor let out an exclamation of delight.

"There she is, lovely girl!" He hurried over to where what seemed to be a police box stood, tucked into a small closet off of the main hallway. His fingers ran eagerly over the wood, painted a deep, bright blue. "You alright?" he murmured under his breath, glancing up and beaming at the bulky shape.

Natasha's lips parted slightly in alarm. Sure, the box was fairly big, but even two bodies inside of it would've been a squeeze, let alone three people, an alien, a god, and a man in a metal suit. How could they possibly be expected to fit?

The Doctor glanced over his shoulder, still grinning, as if to make sure he had everyone's attention. "Now, pay attention," he instructed. "This is the best part." He pushed forward, and the door (which, Natasha couldn't help but notice, was labeled clearly '_PULL TO OPEN'_) creaked open quickly. Inside, she could see what seemed to be a gleaming gold console bay, like the set of some science fiction movie, the circular control board covered with all matter of buttons, switches, and levers, blinking and glinting in several colors. There were a couple of computer screens, as well, and even what seemed to be an old-fashioned telephone, but none of that was what caused Natasha's eyes to go impossibly wide.

It was the _size _that stunned her.

The place was massive—several times larger than the closet that the box, the TARDIS, was shoved into. The Doctor hurried inside immediately, confirming that it wasn't simply an illusion as he twirled up to the console and ran his hands over it delightedly. As if the huge space wasn't enough, there seemed to be several more rooms branching off of it, doorways in shadow.

Shaking her head in slow disbelief, Natasha slipped past Steve and Tony, who were gaping blankly, and touched the side of the wooden box. It seemed perfectly solid, if a bit unusually warm. She kept her hands in place and carefully moved them along the outside of it, feeling the smoothness of each side, including the back. The thing had to be hardly more than ten square feet. And yet… rounding to the front again, she peered inside, to where the Doctor stood, beaming proudly.

"It's bigger on the inside," she whispered.

"That it is!" he crowed in delight. "Come on in, all of you, no reason to hold back! Nothing's going to hurt you."

Natasha stepped back warily, leaving an open path for the others. After a moment of tension, Thor stepped forward. He certainly seemed the least surprised of any of them, which, she realized, only made sense—he was an alien, too, of a sort; he'd probably seen all matter of things this remarkable before.

"It is an impressive vessel," he allowed, slowly making his way up to where the Doctor stood (or rather _bounced, _he seemed to be having a great deal of difficulty holding still).

"Isn't she?" he agreed. "One of a kind—well, she didn't _used _to be one of a kind," he murmured, a shadow falling over his face. His mouth moved silently, and only Natasha's experience in lip-reading allowed her to detect his next words—_neither did I. _

Choosing not to dwell on this peculiar muttering, she made her way inside, her eyes running over the large golden curves and glassy surfaces of the time machine. Tony followed her, then Steve and Clint, their eyes wide and wondering.

"How does this work?" she questioned softly. "Some sort of… inter-dimensional structure…?"

"Everyone's_ getting _it so quickly lately," he complained, but his eyes sparkled. "Exactly. You're a smart one, aren't you?"

"Only because of the training I received."

"No need to say that. I know an intelligent woman when I see one."

A small smile twitched at her lips, but she forced it down, crossing her arms and deigning not to reply. The Doctor watched her hopefully for another couple of seconds—she could feel his gaze, even with her own in a completely different direction—before whirling around to his console.

"So," he murmured, "Fury said that he'd… ah, here we go. Clint, would you mind closing the door behind you?"

The archer seemed a bit uncomfortable with the all-too-familiar use of his first name, but he nodded and pushed it shut, stepping over to Natasha. She inched closer to him, seeking his familiarity in this strange space, and she could feel his internal grin, even as his face stayed stony.

"And we're off!" The Doctor flipped a switch, and the console bay was suddenly seized by very unnatural-sounding wheezes and heaves, rocking slightly. A slight gasp flew from Natasha's lips, and she reached out, gripping hold of the railing that thankfully stood behind her. Clint did the same, while Thor managed to stay standing without support. Tony flailed for balance and threw out his hand, which just so happened to land on the shoulder of a very ruffled-looking Steve. Vibrations ran along the floor, and Natasha gritted her teeth—this couldn't be normal, could it? The Doctor, though, didn't seem perturbed at all, and the noises and movements died down only moments later, their surroundings settling into place again.

"What the hell was _that?_" Tony gawked.

"Just a little flight." Cheerily, the Doctor hurried over to the door and slowly opened it, poking his head out. When he drew it back in, his features were filled with relief. "You're all good, looks like we're in some sort of disused…"

A low, strangled groan crept into the TARDIS from the outside room.

"You were saying?" Tony muttered, but Natasha was already flitting past the Doctor, Clint at her heels. Sure enough, the room was entirely dark, but her eyes quickly adjusted to the slight glow from inside of the TARDIS, enough so to reveal two shadowy figures slumped on the ground, each shoved against a wall of the small room. She froze, poised to spring back inside if they proved themselves to be enemies. Were they sleeping? Definitely alive… or at least one of them was; that sound hadn't come from nowhere.

The Doctor changed the angle of the door slightly, letting a slice of buttery light fall into the room, and the first thing that Natasha saw was blood.

Blood, spread in dark pools over the carpet, and seeming to lead back to one of the limp shapes, the still, silent one. A quick gasp came from the Doctor, and she didn't even hesitate before darting into the room, her feet absolutely noiseless against the carpet as she made her way around the outside of a blood trail. Moments later, she was crouched next to the body—a man, she was able to see, fairly young, his features painted deep red with blood. So much blood, everywhere—she settled her hands on his shoulders for a moment, then withdrew them when they were wetted as well. His chest was moving, but just barely—it was a miracle that he was still alive.

"Is it Castiel?" the Doctor called anxiously.

She shook her head, then slipped her arms under the body's elbows, bracing her feet against the floor and managing to rise to her full light. The unconscious man sagged against her, and she carefully tipped him so that his head rested on her shoulder, ignoring the hot liquid that was staining the skintight fabric of her suit. As quickly as possible, she dragged him over to the door of the TARDIS, and carefully handed him over to a shocked and horrified Doctor. His wounds were even more horribly evident in the full light—gashes and cuts all along his face and torso.

"God…" came a whisper from inside the TARDIS.

_"Dean…" _

The soft word emerged from the other side of the room, and Natasha looked over swiftly, to see the other heap stirring, vivid blue eyes glinting in the faint light. _Castiel, thank God. _She hurried over, crouching beside him.

"Are you alright?" she asked urgently.

"Dean—" The angel, who didn't even seem to recognize her, glanced frantically towards the door to the TARDIS.

"We have him," Natasha promised. "Now, come on, we're going to get you out of here." Slowly, she managed to help support him as he shakily rose to his feet, his eyes wide and his lips shaking. "Just over here… it'll be fine, you're both going to be fine…"

Sudden footsteps sliced through the silence, from outside the door. Rather than slowing, Natasha picked up her pace, her expression tightening as she gathered Cas fully up in her arms. He let out only a low whimper, too weak to protest, and she was barely two steps away from the TARDIS when the room's door was flung open, banging against the wall and casting everything into sudden bright relief. Standing there was a shocked-looking blonde man, his eyes wide and hateful as he stared at the TARDIS. He made to move forward, his arm extended towards Natasha and Cas, but then there was suddenly an arrow shaft quivering in his throat, blood fountaining from the wound.

A voice echoed from the outside hallway, high-pitched and Irish. "Master?"

"Tasha, get in here!" Clint roared, swiftly nocking another arrow as the blonde man folded to the ground. There were more footsteps outside, thundering up what sounded like a staircase, and Natasha didn't hesitate before leaping into the TARDIS, Cas sagging in her firm grip.

"Let's get out of here," the Doctor called loudly, slamming the TARDIS door shut within a hair's breadth of Cas's dirty trench coat. He was beside the console within seconds, flipping a number of switches, and the groaning lurch filled the room again, a guarantee that they were being taken safely away from here.

Relieved, Natasha gently let Cas sink to the floor, where he sat trembling, still whispering _Dean _under his breath. The other man, bloodier than ever, was being supported between Thor and Steve, while the Doctor looked on with a cold expression that seemed eerily out-of-place on his usually bright features.

That had been too close.

Far too close.


	9. Bonding

**A/N** _Wow, so many reviews last chapter, I really don't know how to react! Thank you all so, so much!_

**Thanks to** _Asita Shan, HarryPotterForLife7, Basia Orci, Mixed Reality, Mirabilem Electo, Storylover158, elmoisemo6, and Marcus S. Lazarus__  
_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own the Avengers/Doctor Who/Supernatural/Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER IX. **_Bonding_

"Get help," Steve instructed as soon as the TARDIS landed again, adjusting his grip on the unconscious man's limp form. "He's lost a lot of blood, we need to get him to safety as soon as possible."

"How do you even know that he's an ally? Maybe we don't want to be saving him," Tony pointed out, but a swift, hard glance from the blonde captain rendered him silent. The Doctor quickly opened the door, and the two of them heaved the body out, stumbling along the hallway. Clint hurried ahead, while the Doctor and Natasha helped Castiel along, and Thor rounded up the back.

A few agents scattered about the hall looked up in alarmed confusion, and Clint glared down at them, barking out inquiries. "We've got to get these two to a medical bay as soon as possible. Where's Director Fury? I need to talk to him." Cas and the other injured man were hurried off quickly, taken into the arms of surprised-looking agents who didn't question the archer's commands.

"I should go with them," the Doctor muttered, anxiety shining in his eyes.

"No, we need you with us," Natasha insisted. "Please, Doctor, you're at least as important to this team as the rest of us. Fury will want to talk to you…"

"The reason that he's here was the Master, though," Clint pointed out, adjusting his quiver as he walked along briskly, following another agent who claimed to know Fury's current location. "And I recognized him from those pictures—he's the one that I put an arrow in the neck of. I doubt he's a concern anymore."

The Doctor looked vaguely harried, but he walked along with them anyways, though he shot a lingering, concerned glance in the direction of the two wounded men first. "You'll remember that the Master is far from human. He'll regenerate—it's what all of us do, you lot noticed that my face changes, didn't you?" Clint gave a careful, quick nod. "Well, it happens every time I die. And it'll happen to him, too. He's already back, I'm sure… with a new body, too, so now we won't recognize him."

"Then I suppose we can't cut you loose after all," the archer grumbled, clearly indignant that his shot hadn't done as much damage as he'd originally thought. He deigned to remain silent for the rest of the trek, before the light-haired agent leading them indicated a door off to the side.

"Director Fury should be in here," he murmured quietly. "Though he's in a bit of a foul mood, I'll have you know—you might want to be careful, if you're delivering… bad news." His eyes, a rather pleasant hazel, drifted over the tired-looking group of Avengers.

"Then we'll be careful. Thank you," Natasha said gratefully, stepping past Clint to push open the door. Inside was a small office space, consisting of a wide, horseshoe-shaped desk topped with a number of flat-screen computers and little else. Nick Fury stood behind the chair in the center, gazing down interestedly at its occupant, who was, of all people, Sherlock Holmes.

The detective's eyes were wide as they flew over the many glowing screens, pupils rapidly flickering back and forth, and the faint blue glow was reflected on his pale features. His fingers were poised under his chin, elbows braced against the table as he drank in the information presumably displayed before him, and he seemed entirely oblivious to the Avengers' entrance.

Fury, however, looked up immediately, and his eye darkened as soon as he saw the low expressions on their faces. "How did you do?" he demanded roughly. Sherlock's eyes twitched upwards, focusing on them, but his expression didn't change in the least.

"We retrieved Castiel," Natasha reported, "along with another man who was there with him. I… believe that he might have been Dean Winchester."

Fury's chin dipped, looking slightly relieved. "Good. Then you did what you were meant to."

"They're… hurt," she went on, her cool tone almost nervous. "Winchester quite severely. They've been taken off to recover, but… it was bad."

His features tightened again. "As long as they were still breathing, our medical team should be able to handle it." Despite his confident word choice, he didn't sound all that certain, himself.

"There's… one more thing," the Doctor spoke up. "The Master was there. Clint shot him, but… doing so won't kill him. He's going to regenerate, bring himself back, with a new face."

"A trait of Time Lords?"

"Exactly." The alien's teeth toyed with the bottom of his lip anxiously, and Fury looked away for a moment, deliberating, before turning to face Clint.

"Well, Agent, I assume you knew nothing about this regeneration process when you released the arrow?"

"Nothing, sir."

"Then your actions are excusable." He let out a long sigh, then glanced towards the corner of one of the computer screens. "It's late, you all need rest. You're off-duty for the rest of the night, but I expect you at the conference room tomorrow, seven a.m. sharp. Get something to eat, too—I don't think this pathetic temporary building has managed to pull together any sort of decent dining area yet, but I'm sure that it won't be a challenge for you to call in food."

"Anyone up for pizza?" Tony offered with a halfhearted grin.

Thor's eyebrows drew together. "…Pizza?" he repeated, the word foreign in his deep voice.

Fury rolled his single eye. "Get out of here, all of you. It's like running a secret organization of teenage boys."

Natasha coughed lightly.

"Wait," Sherlock interjected suddenly as the large group began turning to leave. He straightened up from his slightly hunched position over the computer screens. "Dean Winchester. He was hurt, you said? Do you know why he was there?"

Natasha shook her head slightly, red locks swinging around her concerned face. "No, but—"

"He was in the same room as Castiel?"

"Yes…"

"They targeted him," Sherlock breathed, his eyes wide. "You said that Winchester was in hiding, docile, they wouldn't have any reason to drag him out unless…." Suddenly, his voice became much softer, almost cracked. "Unless they were trying to find Castiel's weakness. And if they really did take him from here… they know… about us, about the newly drafted Avengers."

"What are you getting at, Holmes?" Fury demanded as the others looked on warily.

"_He's_ in danger," was all Sherlock got out, then stared blankly for a solid five seconds before starting up again, his voice sharp. "Agent Romanoff, you said that Sebastian Moran would be taken care of if I agreed to join forces with you."

"We have a few select agents on the mission now," Fury confirmed before Natasha could speak, crossing his arms and looking on worriedly.

Sherlock sprang to his feet, practically shaking. "But he's not the only threat. If they knew about the angel, they know about me. They'll go after him… Moriarty didn't need a mundane _sniper, _not when—" He froze mid-speech, mouth still open, and the gears whirring in his mind were practically visible. "Moriarty," he repeated, slowly, deliberately.

"The man you had to fake your death for?" Steve prompted cautiously.

"He was dead, he was _definitely _dead." Sherlock pushed thoughtlessly past Fury and began to pace around the table, his eyes wide and his chest heaving. "But this is Lucifer, this is _Satan, _it would be all too easy… if they knew about me…" He ran an aggravated hand through his dark curls, then looked up, his eyes focused at some invisible point over the others' heads. "They have Moriarty."

"Slow down, here," Fury commanded harshly. "There's no reason for you to believe that. There's no evidence—"

"No evidence? There's _evidence, _there's evidence everywhere!" Sherlock half-shouted. "Six people detected in that mansion, you said. Loki, the Master, Lucifer, Castiel, Winchester, _and Moriarty!_ Here…" He returned to a computer, the screen of which was turned away from all but him and Fury, and began to click and type madly. "Or maybe I'm not even a part of it, maybe they brought him back right away… oh, it's obvious, it's so _obvious,_ all those connections, his ability to manipulate the very government—it doesn't get any easier than having a crime buddy who was the _Prime Minister, _does it? Side of the angels… he felt clever, didn't he, his little inside joke… maybe he even knew then, knew that they'd bring him back…"

"You're not making any sense!" Fury barked.

"Look." Sherlock finally stepped back from the computer, still breathing heavily, and gestured to something on the screen. Fury leaned in, squinting for a moment before his eye went wide. "You didn't pay him any attention, did you? He's subtle, he's clever, but he was there the whole time… that's a light disguise, the hair, the shades, but if you ran one of your face recognition scans… that's Moriarty, Director. That's James Moriarty, just a few yards away from the other three. You've been staring at the photo with him in it this whole time. And if he's there, it's definite. They went after Dean Winchester, now they're going to go after John Watson, and I'm not going to let them. I hid to save him, and there's no way now that I'll let him be taken away from me."

Fury exhaled slowly, in minute degrees. The air seemed to hum with tension, and the six Avengers in the doorway stared on in mute horror. The Doctor was the first to speak up, after nearly thirty seconds, his voice a thousand times more hollow than any of them had yet heard it.

"You think that's what they're doing, then? Going after the people close to us, trying to find a weakness?"

Sherlock nodded shortly.

"Do you have someone who could be in danger, Doctor?" Natasha asked softly.

He shook his head slowly, but the gesture clearly reflected anything but denial. "Such an idiot, such an _idiot… _I never should have left them behind… Amy and Rory Pond. I… they're at home, now, I gave them a house, told them to live their lives…"

"We'll have to bring them all back here, then," Fury sighed, rubbing a hand over his forehead. "Watson, the Ponds—I'll have teams pulled together by morning—"

"No," Sherlock interrupted, his voice cold and resolute. "I have to be the one to get John. No one else can."

"Holmes—"

"_No one else can,_" he repeated, practically snarling. He and Fury stared fiercely at one another for several moments, before the Director caved with a low growl of frustration.

"Teenage boys, I tell you," he repeated under his breath. "Alright, the Doctor can take you to Baker Street tomorrow to fetch him. It's _not _going to happen before tomorrow," he continued, raising a hand as Sherlock began to object. "I'll let you go, but not before you get a chance to rest yourself. The same for you, Doctor, assuming that you want to be the one to fetch your Mr. and Mrs. Pond…?"

"Preferably so," the Doctor agreed, looking grateful. "Thank you, Director, I'll be ready first thing in the morning."

"A night is long enough," Sherlock got out, "_more _than enough for them to send someone to kill him…"

"If it's any consolation," the Doctor pointed out, "they took Winchester in, didn't just kill him right away. They'll want to lure you in—they wouldn't waste their only advantage."

Sherlock gave a small, tight nod, then returned to his pacing, proceeding to entirely ignore the rest of them.

"That's the plan, then," Fury summed up, bringing his hands together in a harsh clap. "Nothing about tonight has changed. I still want you all to get some rest. Dr. Banner is helping to plot a new laboratory for himself—"

Tony's eyebrows lifted slightly. "_Only _for himself?"

"I'm sure he wouldn't be entirely opposed to letting you play with his test tubes, Stark."

He couldn't seem to decide whether to be excited or embarrassed, and settled for a bashful sort of smile, one that looked entirely out of place on his usually arrogant face. An outsider probably would have been curious whether he was so delighted at the prospect of Bruce or that of science, but anyone who knew him personally could easily confirm that it was both.

"That aside, he's the only one who we've had the time to create a proper room for."

"Big mystery why that might be," Clint growled quietly. "Who wants to bet that it's reinforced with ungodly strong walls?"

Natasha scowled fiercely enough to shut him up, while Steve's jaw went stiff and Tony looked almost personally offended.

"Will you let me finish a sentence once in a while?" Fury snapped. "There's a few makeshift dormitories for overnight agents, you all should be able to find one big enough for the group of you. They're in the east wing of the establishment, just knock on the doors till you find an empty room. Now, out of here. I've got enough of a headache without all of you causing noise."

* * *

The dormitory that they did manage to find was rather tiny, at least considering the number of them that there were. Ten cots lined the long, narrow space, five against each wall, looking incredibly unappealing with their thin pillows and sanitary blue, plastic-textured mattresses. Not to mention that they were incredibly _small, _designed for slim-muscled agents, to the point where someone like Thor was forced to actually curl his legs up in order for them to not dangle several inches off the end. The only one who seemed entirely fit for such a small bed was Natasha, whose slender frame seemed to arrange itself into a comfortable position with practically no effort at all.

At first, they tried to sleep without so much as eating—simply stripping off their suits to make way for more comfortable clothing, in the case of the original Avengers, but both their collective restlessness and the hunger gnawing in their stomachs ensured that such a thing would be impossible. After nearly half an hour of tossing and turning and worrying, Tony finally sat straight up and let out a long, exaggerated sigh.

"Alright, team," he began loudly.

"Shut the hell up," Clint growled into his scratchy, foam-stuffed pillow.

"Is anyone else hungry?" he went on, ignoring the archer's interjection. "'Cause Fury told us to eat, and a couple of you have stomachs that can rumble pretty damn loudly."

"…Food wouldn't be horrible," Steve admitted almost meekly after a long pause, and a murmur of agreement came from the direction of Natasha and (stubbornly) Clint.

"I _was _wondering why we had to get to bed _immediately,_" the Doctor agreed brightly, pushing himself up onto his elbows. Though he'd been rather quieter since his discussion with Fury, something which could presumably be attributed to his concern for his former companions, he sounded more like his usual bouncy self now. "It's not _that _late, whatever Director Fury said—barely even dark out. And after all, it's not that often that you get to spend the night with so many people, we might as well make it enjoyable!"

"It's not like this is any sort of _party,_" said Clint, sounding rather irritable. Natasha, sitting in the bed inches away from his (it looked suspiciously as though they might have pushed them closer together), set a hand gently on his shoulder. He tensed, but didn't make any move to shake it off.

"It does not have to be a 'party' in order to be enjoyable," Thor pointed out. Both his face and voice were relieved as he pulled himself out of the uncomfortable-looking position he'd been attempting to sleep in. "Oftentimes, in Asgard, we would precede a hunt or battle with a feast of celebration. The warriors would always sleep well on full stomachs, and be all the more formidable come sunrise."

"A feast," Tony agreed. "Why not? We may not have any sort of Asgardian food, but at least there's pizza, like I said before. You ever tried pizza, Thor?" He winked at the thunder god and lifted a cell phone from the floor next to his cot.

"What are you supposed to tell the delivery men?" Natasha cut in from across the room. "You can hardly just have it dropped off here, can you?"

"No reason not to. Just give them the address, say there's a special delivery for Tony Stark up in the dorms, the guards can bring it right in." He flashed her a grin and dialed what seemed to be a familiar number, while she slouched back against the wall, muttering '_idiot_' under her breath.

As it turned out, three large pizzas—one cheese, one pepperoni, and one everything—had no problem at all making their way up to the Avengers' room, and with them came a disgruntled-looking Sherlock, sent by Fury with the insistence that he needed rest.

"I don't _rest,_" he spat, perching on the edge of an empty cot as though it might burn him. "I thought that he'd had an eye on me for _years, _it shouldn't be that hard to figure out."

Despite his initial iciness, though, even he eventually warmed up as the atmosphere grew more friendly. Even if Tony Stark was labeled as 'volatile and unable to play well with others,' there was no denying that he had a certain charm that practically no one was immune to. They talked and ate at the same time, several conversations occurring at once—Thor eagerly explained Asgard's appearance and 'magic' to a highly interested Doctor; Tony worked to update Steve on the general feel of technology and pop culture, which the outdated super-soldier still hadn't quite managed to grasp; Clint and Natasha murmured softly to one another in the corner by the moonlit window; and Sherlock looked on upon all of them, occasionally interrupting a conversation to correct Tony on a detailed fact or make a subtle conjecture about some aspect of Thor's homeland.

It couldn't be called friendship, exactly, what was humming between all of them—after all, the Avengers weren't even fully gathered together. Bruce was isolated in his own room, a burning reminder of the thing that set him apart from the rest of them. Cas and Dean were still in intensive care, helping them to recover from the severe damage that Lucifer had inflicted. And even those in the communal dorm still had worries and anxieties plaguing their mind—Sherlock and the Doctor, most notably, with their obsessive concern over John, Amy, and Rory.

Indeed, perhaps not friendship, but still _something, _still some tentative strands of familiarity, faint whispers of a future bond, the way the Doctor's eyes shone as Thor's rich voice described the wonders of Asgard's slim golden towers and the satisfied tug at the edges of Steve's mouth whenever Tony explained a particularly obscure reference that he'd heard in passing, the soft warmth radiating between Clint and Natasha and the intent curiosity that lit Sherlock's wide, pale eyes.

Not friendship—not yet—but a handful of missions, a heavy helping of danger, and the group of lone heroes could be pulled together into something like it.

Luckily for them, or at least for their team's connection, the real drama had barely begun.


	10. Sunlight

**A/N** _This one is a break from all the main action once more, this time for Amy and Rory. It's also a bit shorter of a chapter than usual. _

**Thanks to** _Lucyndareads, Yellow-Spider, and mudkipz__  
_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own the Avengers/Doctor Who/Supernatural/Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER X. **_Sunlight_

"Don't tell me you forgot the orange juice again," Amy groaned, peering into the deep recesses of the refrigerator with a scowl on her tired face. "Every single time, I swear…"

"Hm?" There was a faint rustle from the bedroom, just a door down the hallway. "What'd I do now?"

"The orange juice?" she repeated more loudly, rising back up to her full height and swinging shut the fridge's door. "I've only been asking for it for the past fortnight, you realize."

"If you want it so bad, get some yourself," was the slurred response.

"Bit more snarky than usual in the morning, aren't you?" Laughing lightly, she set the empty glass she'd been holding on the counter and pranced back into the bedroom, hopping onto the side of the bed where Rory was just blinking open his sleep-weighted eyes. The wide, soft mattress bounced underneath her weight, and he groaned in protest, raising a hand over his face to block out the pale streams of sunlight filtering in under the wide window's aqua blue curtain.

"Come on, it's almost nine," she half-scolded, lifting a hand to brush a few tangled ginger strands of hair off of her forehead. "You know that sleeping in makes you crabby."

"Nine isn't that late," he protested weakly, turning on his side and reaching out to pull a pillow over his head. She lunged forward and grabbed hold of it first, tossing it onto the floor and doubling over with another fit of giggles as he whined in protest.

"Well, aren't you just right cheery this morning?"

"It's a _good _morning," she explained simply, springing up and hurrying over to the window. She thrust the curtain aside in a quick motion, revealing a picturesque view of their small but cozy garden. Green grass, glittering with dew in the morning light, lined the yard, with bright-hued flowers poking up out of the earth. The sky was clear, promising pleasant weather, with only a few fluffy clouds lining the golden horizon.

"Glad you think so… I could stand to sleep a bit more." Rory's voice cut through her inexplicably excited haze, and she whipped around again, hands poised on her hips.

"You can't just sleep your life away, you know."

"Coming from the woman who nearly took my eye out when I tried to wake her up early last week. What's up with you?"

"I told you, nothing's up with me." She deliberated for a moment, rocking on her heels as he finally straightened up, blinking against the light. "We should do something today, though. Go somewhere. We haven't really _gone _anywhere since we moved in here, you know? Just… sat around like some old married couple."

"We are a married couple," Rory pointed out tiredly, reaching for the robe draped over the nearest bedpost. "And don't you think we've had our fill of… _going _places, all in all?"

For the first time, her features slipped into a serious frown. Things always seemed to grow tenser when one of them brought up the Doctor, however indirect the reference may be. There wasn't any particular reason for such, but she suspected it might have something to do with the fact that she absolutely _missed _their life in the TARDIS. She missed the running and the aliens, the danger and the excitement, the seemingly endless expanses of time and space open for them to access whenever they wanted… and he, well, he _didn't. _Rory had never wanted to be the Doctor's companion. It wasn't that he minded when he did become such, but it was only really because Amy was there, and it was common knowledge that he'd go to the ends of the universe and back for her. But _without _Amy, the pull of the galaxies didn't tempt him.

This, on the other hand—this was the life he'd always wanted, with the perfect house, the perfect car, the perfect wife. There was a _future _for them, children, maybe—he tried not to think about Melody, having no idea what to consider her at this point. She may be his daughter, but he'd never raised her, knew her only as the Doctor's wife… and that was the problem, really; she was _too _connected to the Doctor. She was already an adult, if looked at from the right angle, and the last time that they'd seen her was when she'd come to deliver the news of the Doctor himself, of his survival. A good sort of final note, that had been, in Rory's opinion, at least. He was alive, he was alright, his life would go on, and so would theirs.

Amy, on the other hand, seemed much clingier about the whole thing. She didn't want to let their old life go, even as Rory tried to convince her how much better things were this way. And so it was that they tended to avoid the topic altogether, so the typical calm flow of their relationship wouldn't be caught up in uneasy, disagreeable knots.

With this common interest in mind, she managed to shake off his words, shrugging and adjusting the waist sash of her fluffy, cream-colored bathrobe. "Well, we should at least get out of the house, in any case. It's gorgeous outside."

"Yeah, alright," he agreed, pulling on his own robe and stretching, his jaws parting in a long yawn. "We can walk down to the grocery, if you want, get some of that orange juice…"

"I don't just mean _walking to the store,_ Rory," she reprimanded, rolling her eyes fondly. "I mean we should _really _get out, have—I don't know, a picnic or something."

"A picnic," he repeated, then chuckled, shrugged. "Alright, breakfast or lunch?"

"Breakfast," she decided, already beaming at the prospect. "Or brunch, whatever. It'll be perfect—I can get that old basket out of the closet, the big wicker one, and I'm sure we've got a quilt around here somewhere… it can be a date!"

"A date for the married couple. Nice," Rory snorted. He sounded rather pleased by the idea himself, though, and didn't object as he paced to the other side of the room and opened the closet door, his eyes running up and down the assortment of clothes inside. "M'just gonna shower first, okay?"

"Right, I'll get some food together," she agreed as he grabbed a shirt and pair of trousers and swung them over his shoulder. "Don't take up _all _the hot water this time, I might want to take one after you."

"I'm not the one who takes up all the hot water!" he objected over his shoulder, traipsing from the room. She shook her head with amusement, her lips curling up slightly as she stared out after him. A door banged, and, moments later, the hiss of shower water filled the quiet little house. Amy lingered for another couple of seconds before stepping into the hall and approaching the linen closet next to the bathroom. Tucked deep into the back were a number of blankets, and, after sifting through them for a short while, she managed to locate a thick quilt, patterned in friendly squares of pastel yellow, blue, orange, and green. Perfect. She fetched a large basket from the top shelf and brought them both to the kitchen, setting them on the granite countertop and turning back to the fridge, ideas for food to pack running through her mind.

At first, she didn't hear the doorbell ring over the rush of Rory's shower.

Humming to herself, she opened a cupboard and ran her fingers over the boxes of crackers and pasta inside, selecting a bag of corn crisps and placing them next to the basket and quilt.

Again, the doorbell rang, but the sound was drowned in the white noise of the water.

_Watermelon would be nice, _she reflected, peeking inside the refrigerator and wincing at the blast of cool air. Naturally, they didn't have any watermelon, but there would probably be some at the grocery store, as Rory had suggested—along with the greatly desired orange juice. Perhaps they could stop by there, first of all. Or maybe she could, while he was showering—it was only a block away, after all. She'd have to get dressed first, though. Oh, well—her own bathing could happen this evening; her hair was practically still damp from the previous night, she reflected, running a hand through it. Certainly clean.

This time, the bell was _loud, _unnaturally magnified to such a piercing volume that she yelped and stumbled backwards, slamming shut the refrigerator. "Hell," she choked, pressing on her throbbing ears. It took several seconds to realize what the noise had been, and then she was at the door, throwing it open and opening her mouth to deliver a ferocious, well-placed insult.

To her utter shock, standing there was none other than the Doctor.

He looked a little more tired than she remembered, his hair a bit more stringy and his face more hollow, but it was still him, still her Doctor, and the familiar grin was tilting his lips, his eyes sparkling at the sight of her. His hand was poised above the doorbell, sonic screwdriver clutched between his fingers—presumably used moments before to magnify the volume, she realized.

"Hello, there, Pond," he greeted her, sounding a bit embarrassed.

She stared blankly for several seconds, then managed to pull herself together, blinking and turning away. All plans for the day had been wiped cleanly from her mind. "…Why are you here?" she asked finally, her voice coming out much softer than she'd intended. "Please—please don't say that we're in danger or anything," she added, still not meeting his eyes, "because… we're happy, we… we don't need to be pulled into anything, not right now."

"Then I suppose I'm sorry, because that's exactly what's wrong. You're in extreme danger, Amy—probably deeper danger than you've been all your life."

She took a deep, long breath, a slight headache pulsating deep inside her skull. As the exhalation drifted away from her lips, she raised her head again, staring straight into the Doctor's wide pupils. "Are there aliens?" she asked quietly, her voice barely audible to either of them.

His chin dipped. "Oh, there are aliens."

Their faces split into grins at the exact same time, and she laughed helplessly, springing herself into his surprised but welcoming arms and throwing her own around his neck, pulling him into a deep, warm hug. "I'm glad you're back," she whispered in his ear, like a schoolgirl telling a secret, and his only response was to tighten his clutch on her, clinging as though she was the most precious thing in the world.

Finally, when they'd hugged the breath out of one another, she stepped back, her cheeks aching from how hard she was grinning. The perfect day had just become a thousand times better—even if they _were _in danger. _Especially _if they were in danger.

She'd missed danger.

"You probably ought to come in," she decided, glancing over her shoulder. "I have a feeling you've got a lot of explaining to do."

Exactly three minutes later, they were situated at the kitchen table, with twin glasses of pink lemonade. Rory was still in the shower—apparently he had chosen to disregard Amy's instruction not to use up all the hot water—but he'd probably be out at any moment.

"So," she murmured, twirling her straw, "why _are _you here?"

"An… old enemy of mine is back," he offered slowly, taking a sip of lemonade and looking rather delighted at the taste. "You haven't heard of him, but my past companions have dealt with him—the Master, that's what he's called. He's… another Time Lord."

"But you're the last of the Time Lords," Amy thought aloud, her brow furrowing in puzzlement.

"I'm _supposed _to be. He was stuck in the Time War with the rest of them last time I finished dealing with him, but now… he's back, he's managed to get himself some allies—a human, another alien, and… er… the Devil. All a bit… bloodthirsty, if you will. Insane."

"The Devil," Amy repeated, her voice calm but her eyes shaded with sarcasm.

"…Right," he agreed, taking another, longer gulp of his drink. "I… wouldn't have expected it, either, but yes. Satan, Lucifer… he's real, and he's allied with the Master, as well as the other two. Jim Moriarty and Loki, they call themselves."

"Loki?" she repeated. "If you're going to tell me that the Norse god—"

"More or less," he said, his voice far too cheery. Her eyes widened, and her jaw dropped slightly, her lips parted in disbelief.

"What—how is that… a demon is one thing, but…"

"Fallen angel, technically. It's all… well, fairly mad business, but there are also superheroes, an angel, and a human genius involved. Luckily, they're on our side."

The shower took that exact moment to turn off, increasing the stunned silence that filled the air. The Doctor had never been all that good at explaining things, Amy reflected numbly, but _this _was just ridiculous. Devils, angels, Time Lords, gods, _superheroes—_she blinked once, hard, as if trying to break the barrier of a dream, but her surroundings guaranteed that she was firmly planted in reality.

"I'll admit that I imagined you coming back quite a few times, Doctor," she finally managed to mutter, "but they always made a lot more sense than this."

"Sense is overrated," he responded seriously, just as Rory strode in, his hair spiky and dripping and a towel wrapped around his waist.

"Hi there, other Pond," the Doctor greeted, his lips finding the lemonade straw and taking a long drink as he twitched his fingers in a wave.

Rory stared openly, his eyes flickering back and forth between the Doctor and Amy as his mouth stuttered, trying to find words. "I… you… Doctor? You're back?" His voice was weak, unbelieving.

"We're being hunted by a human psychopath, another living Time Lord, the Norse god of mischief, and Satan," Amy shot towards him, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he flinched just a bit harder with every enemy named. "Apparently there's a gang of superheroes and an angel backing us up, though, so I'd imagine we're good."

It seemed as though Rory's face couldn't decide whether to go white or green, and settled for a sickly sort of in-between shade. He gripped the edge of the countertop as though seeking to anchor himself in reality, shaking his head slowly.

"This… what?"

"You'd best put some clothes on, Rory," the Doctor advised, sliding his empty glass across the table and rising to his feet. "We've got to leave as soon as possible. Amy, anything you need to pack, pull it together."

"Where are we going?" she asked, unable to keep herself from letting her internal eagerness seep into her voice.

"New York," the Doctor answered in an astonishingly matter-of-fact voice. "Most of our new friends are American, but astonishingly intelligent for being such. There _is _a reason why I usually choose British companions, you know…"

Amy couldn't suppress a giggle. "Are we going in the TARDIS?"

"We're going in the TARDIS."

It was official.

This was the best day of Amy Pond's life.


	11. Reunion

**A/N** _And a Reichenbach reunion, which is clearly needed in this story. ;P Don't worry, we'll be back to the Avengers and everyone by next chapter!_

**Thanks to** _mudkipz, elmoisemo6, and Mirabelim Electo__  
_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own the Avengers/Doctor Who/Supernatural/Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER XI. **_Reunion_

It was the silent moments that were the worst, perhaps because it was so horribly, vividly evident to him that, just a few impossibly long months ago, they would have been filled with all the noise and chaos that his life used to consist of. He never would have imagined that he'd miss that life as much as he did… it wasn't perfect, after all. It was stressful, dangerous, exhausting…

But it had Sherlock, and that had made up for everything.

Sherlock was gone now. He'd been gone for days—more than days, but that was always how John forced himself to keep track, because the prospect of bigger numbers, of weeks, months, was too painful to even begin to face. As much as he wanted to separate himself from the event, he simultaneously hated the thought of his life—_existence, _more like, since he couldn't imagine feeling less _alive—_deviating farther from his time with the brilliant detective. It had been too long since he'd been his own person, rather than Dr. Watson, the assistant and blogger of the great Sherlock Holmes. He didn't want to be a _normal _man again, an unknown, quiet war veteran, weary-faced and tired-hearted, wondering exactly why he still existed on this planet.

_Depression, _his therapist had said, her low voice full of warning more than confirmation as she peered at him over the top of her notepad. It had been surrounded by other words, and yet it was the only one that really managed to strike him, to work past the automatic wall built up around his mind, defending it from any interference, any attempt by other to possibly comprehend what he was going through. _We have to be prepared for the possibility of a chemical depression emerging from this, considering the fact that your mind is already more delicate than most, after the war… I don't want to introduce any drugs prematurely, but if you feel any of these symptoms, I want you to contact me immediately…_

She listed them then, one after another, and each struck him like a bullet. _Irritability. Sleeping issues. Restlessness. Loss of appetite. _He'd always assume that Sherlock's antisocial attributes, which matched up almost perfectly to the signs she detailed, were simply a part of the detective's abnormal personality. But it seemed achingly possible, now—even probable—that the concept of his eventual suicide had been hanging under John's nose the whole damn time.

_And I'm supposed to be the doctor._

That particular therapy session had been several weeks ago now. John had indeed been feeling a number of the 'warning signs,' as she called them, and of course he'd told her, because he was obedient, he was intelligent, he knew better than to let himself spiral in yet deeper. She'd given him a bottle of dry pills, after a while, saying that they'd help, naming a dosage and an expected result time.

He always gagged, taking those pills, even as he measured out a perfect glassful of water to wash them down with. Following the instructions, always following the instructions. The pale tablets would catch in his throat, as though they didn't want to go down, didn't want to waste themselves on him, on what was surely a pointless case anyways, because he knew what his place in life was, and now it had been cut away from him, ripped him violently apart from his other half…

_Other half. _He could almost laugh at that, at how pathetic the words sounded. 'Other half' implied a mutual need, and he was positive that Sherlock had meant much more to him than he had to Sherlock. _I was so alone, and I owe you so much. _Sherlock hadn't been alone. He owed John nothing.

An unpaid debt, and no way to fulfill it…

Guilt was a good portion of it, too. Guilt that he wasn't able to prevent the fall—because to him, at least, it felt far from inevitable. There was surely a moment—a thousand moments—during which he could have said something, done something differently, something that would have provoked Sherlock to wait a little longer, to just barely outweigh his fatal decision…

These were the types of thoughts that circled through his mind endlessly, and likewise which did this particular day, the weather of which was appropriately dreary in a way far from unusual in London. Mist wreathed the tops of buildings and pressed against the high windows of Baker Street, a ghostly web of silver strands that offered iciness to anyone who decided to go outside. Rain fell sporadically, hard and fast like tiny gunshots, wounding the pavement with dark speckles and bombarding the head and shoulders of pedestrians.

John, for one, was staying inside. It never crossed his mind to spend this rare day off work in any other way. He didn't have many friends, in any case, aside from Molly, who was occupied with her own job, and Mrs. Hudson, on weekend vacation with her possible fiancé—the owner of a nearby bookshop. John was certainly glad that she'd found someone to be with (and at her age, it was quite fortunate), but he couldn't help but feel a twinge of selfish irony that her partner be found just as his was lost.

'Partner,' in the loosest sense of the word. He didn't like to think about what exactly his and Sherlock's relationship had been in the end, or what it might have evolved into, had it been given more time. It hurt too much, too deeply.

A particularly fierce gust of rain rammed itself against the window, conveniently disrupting this particular train of thought, and with it came a knocking on the door downstairs, harsh and demanding, echoing through the hollow flat. John squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to ignore it, knowing how useless such a thing was, then let a low, quiet sigh escape his lips. Loneliness was no excuse to ignore a caller. The opposite, as a matter of fact. As much as he didn't want to have to interact with anyone else right now—doing so mandated a bright expression, a welcoming smile and upturned eyes, something that was getting harder and harder to pull together—he could hardly just ignore them, either.

Still, as he forced himself into a standing position, not looking at the place where Sherlock's own chair used to sit, there were words condensing on his mind, drifting to a point just behind his lips—_I'm sorry, this isn't the best time, do you think you could possibly come back later? Oh, perhaps in a few hours, days, years… actually, just stay out, just tell the rest of the world to leave me alone, that I have nothing to offer them…_

He wouldn't say that, though. Of course he wouldn't. As much as he might want to.

The stairs and the door came up all too fast, and then he reached out tiredly, placing his hand on the knob and turning it, pushing it open. He didn't look up, at first, until he reached the realization that his visitor was rather tall, and then his neck and chin were tilting, his eyes were slowly growing wider as they took in the long, dark raincoat, splattered with mud and water around the hem, drawn tight at the front with a hood pulled over the wearer's face. A few strands of dark, curly hair poked out of the edge, but the face was ducked, in shadow, a hand holding the garment together at the neck.

"John." The voice was low, hoarse, and yet familiar at the way that prickled at the back of his neck and caused his stomach to contort horribly. "I need you to let me in. We're being watched."

"Wh—I… I don't know who you are." He tried to speak in a firm way, but it came out as a faint whisper, and he still couldn't quite target the reason why, even though something in his chest told him that it was exceedingly obvious.

"Don't be ridiculous."

He tensed, ready to demand that this bizarre, hooded stranger get the hell out of his doorway, when the voice suddenly became softer, smoother. "Let me in, John."

Something suddenly clouded up his vision, and he couldn't quite tell if it was tears or dizziness, but suddenly he was stepping back, holding the door open and letting the tall figure in, despite the idiocy of such an action, shutting it behind him, turning around and bracing his back against the wood as he watched him. The hood came down, slowly, a long-fingered, pale hand reaching up and pulling it back with a slight shake of the head. The damp, dark hair was exposed, slightly longer than John remembered, and the slim shoulders as he shook off the rest of the coat, revealing the usual spotless, sleek black suit. Rain dripped down his neck, and his form was perfectly still, back still turned to John, standing tall and unflinching.

John didn't speak for a long time. His throat was dry, his whole torso aching, and he pressed his hands harder into the door that he stood against, feeling the wood grain against his hands, comfortingly, promisingly real. An inexplicable chill seemed to be filling the room, electric and frozen, and it must have been at least a full minute before he finally mustered a low croak.

"It's you."

The other man didn't speak, didn't turn. But he was moving—_trembling, _his shoulders were shaking as if with the silent sobs that John knew he would never allow to consume him. Slowly, in a dreamlike trance, John forced himself to move forward, each step slow and hesitant, creaking the floorboards.

"It's you," he breathed again.

The figure was still, neither confirming nor denying.

And then John was closing the distance between them, pacing in front and turning around so that he could see him face-to-face—his hair was longer, his face more tired, but it was him.

It was him.

And the eyes, John couldn't look away from the eyes, even though there was so much else to see, the nervous, stiff arms and the tightly pressed lips and the hard-clenched jaw. Those eyes, the pale, exquisite silver-green, glowing faintly blue, the color of galaxies, the color that he'd never quite forgotten, that he'd tried so hard to block from his memory because of its blankness the last time he had encountered it. But now the gleam of life was there, burningly bright, shining with the faintest glint of what might have been tears.

_It's you. _One more time, but this time he didn't say it aloud, just mouthed it, his lips moving to frame the silent words.

Sherlock's chin dipped, the edges of his mouth twitched. "It's me," he confirmed, his voice fully the deep baritone that John remembered.

Then John's own legs suddenly weren't enough to hold himself up, and he was reaching out, not even thinking as he flung his arms around Sherlock's shoulders, pulled him as close as he could and forced his forehead into the other man's shoulder, holding him impossibly, painfully tight, his fingers biting into his back in a motion that he half-hoped _would _cause pain, because Sherlock deserved it, deserved it for doing whatever he had done, whatever forced him to make John believe that he had been dead, for days, weeks, _months… _something raw throbbed in his chest, and he forced down the sobs that were rising in his throat but didn't resist the tug behind his eyes, let the tears spill out and over Sherlock's shirt, staining it with their saltiness, as he savored the feel of those lean, strong arms around him, crushing him tight and gasping into him, his mind struggling and eventually giving up with trying to understand the impossibility that his senses insisted on.

"How?" he finally stammered out, after what must have been minutes, hours, days, weeks, months to make up for all those that they'd lost. "How did you… I was so sure…"

"Tricks," Sherlock murmured in response, and John savored every word as he launched into a longer explanation, pulling back so that he could see the familiar face, the lips moving swiftly and surely. "Molly helped. I wouldn't have done it, if not for you, you know. It was Moriarty, he had a setup, he had bullets aimed at you and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, and he would've shot you if I didn't jump. He died on the roof, but the snipers were still out there, and your personal one—Mycroft and I targeted him to be a man called Sebastian Moran—he would have tracked you down and shot you if I revealed myself to be alive. I knew it would hurt you, I… I wouldn't have done this, I swear, if you hadn't been one of them. The other two… I wouldn't have put you through this just to save them."

"Never crossed your mind that both of their deaths might've amounted to at least as much as yours?" John tried to laugh, but only a twisted sort of cough managed to work its way out of his lungs.

"They wouldn't have. I know you too well."

"Egotistical bastard," he muttered, but he knew that Sherlock's words were true, as horribly guilty as he was over such a fact. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade's deaths would have been devastating, tragic, even, but they wouldn't rip John's life apart so utterly in the way that Sherlock's had.

"You sound… normal," Sherlock murmured, his eyebrows drawing together, and John's stomach squirmed to see such a gesture again, such a familiar expression on the other's face.

"Trust me," he got out slowly, his hands moving from Sherlock's shoulders to grasp at his forearms, "I'm not." Slowly, he shook his head, forcing himself to breathe, to take long, shaky inhalations, let them fill up his lungs fully before whooshing back out. It was too much at once—Sherlock was back, he had _faked _his death, he had done it to _save John, _he was back now and… and…

And what?

_What now?_

"…What now?" he asked quietly, almost thoughtfully. "You're back, I guess…"

"You guess?"

"You're back," he admitted, and the words tasted amazing in his mouth, enough so that a tiny smile began to creep across his face. "You're back, so what do we do now? Do we… tell the others, I suppose…?"

"You really _have _adjusted quickly," Sherlock mused.

That couldn't be farther from the truth. Every one of John's movements still felt as though it was being conducted in slow motion, and his insides dropped every time he reminded himself _who _he was talking to, what had happened—in other words, just about every half second. He still couldn't quite convince himself that this wasn't a dream, that he wouldn't wake up in moments drenched in sweat with tears pooling in his eyes… but Sherlock's silken sleeves felt real, as did the elevation of his heart, the giddy lightheadedness filling his skull.

"I just…" He shook his head. How could he put it into words—the fact that he couldn't dwell on his flatmate's return for too much, that it might turn out to be too good for reality, that the only way to really contend with it was to move on, to keep himself chained firmly in the material world?

"We're not going to tell the others," Sherlock sighed, holding John's gaze steadily. "We're not going to tell anyone. We have to go, John—you have to come with me."

"Come with you? Where?"

"New York." At the utterly baffled look on John's face, he went on rapidly. "I'm only here because you're still in danger."

"Who from?"

"Moriarty." The syllables were dark, acidic, and each one sent a shudder down John's spine.

"Moriarty… he's gone," he mumbled thickly. "Dead. Richard Brook… he vanished, he—there was blood on the roof… did… did he fake it, too?"

"No. He died, John… he died, but he's back."

"That's not possible." Things were starting to spin again, and John quickly released Sherlock's arms, stumbled back onto the stairs and sat down on them, bracing his elbows against his knees and winding his fingers through his hair, pressing the heels of his hands fiercely against his eyes. "You faked… yours…" He couldn't say the word. "Okay, I understand that. But… people can't come back."

"Apparently, they can. It's Lucifer… John, it's the Devil." There was a rustle as Sherlock crouched beside him, reaching out and laying a worried hand on John's shoulder.

The words echoed in his mind. _Lucifer. The Devil._ He'd never been particularly religious, but he still believed vaguely in such things, enough so to just barely process such a fact. "The Devil… brought Moriarty… back to life."

"Yes, and I _know _it's hard to believe, but there's a group of people who can help us, and that's why I'm here, I'm going to take you to them, in New York. They can protect us, John, they can help us fight those two and… their allies."

"Allies?"

Sherlock swallowed. "They're… they go by Loki and the Master. They're just as dangerous as Lucifer and Moriarty, trust me. Now—we have to go, the longer we wait here, the more danger we're in. There's transport waiting for us just outside…"

"No. Tell me who they are. Loki, the… Master? They're human, right? They're not… demons, or anything?" He couldn't help but laugh a tiny bit at that, and it sounded more real this time, more animated.

"Not demons."

"Humans," John repeated, even as he knew that the lack of the word in Sherlock's previous mutter meant that they were far from it. "They're humans, they've got to be humans… they aren't humans?"

A long, soundless second passed, then Sherlock finally spoke again, the last word, the one that confirmed that John was about to be launched into the most insane adventure of his far-from-normal life.

"Aliens."


	12. Closer

**A/N** _Back to the big group! I do want to give all of you fair warning that this chapter does, in relatively light doses, contain what could be interpreted as Dean/Castiel slash. If that's not your cup of tea, worry not; it doesn't get physical, and could, I suppose, be seen as intimate platonic friendship. So it's all up to how you want to look at it. In any case, enjoy the chapter!_

**Thanks to** _elmoisemo6, mudkipz, Guest, Mirabilem Electo, Waiting To Be Broken, redamiB6147, and Cynder713__  
_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own the Avengers/Doctor Who/Supernatural/Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER XII. **_Closer_

"So… you have a time machine."

The Doctor looked up from the table, which he'd been thoughtlessly contemplating for the last few minutes, to meet the pale blue, rather nervous-looking eyes of Steve Rogers. _Captain America, _as he remembered the physically young man's superhero identity to be. Rather surprised by the sudden comment, he nodded, raising his eyebrows in questioning. "That I do."

Steve shifted, looking anxious, and glanced away for a moment. The Doctor's eyes followed his, swiping over the mostly silent conference room. The only other occupants were the original Avengers—Tony and Bruce were murmuring quietly to one another in the corner, while Natasha sat at the table with her chin propped up on her hand, gazing at the wall as Clint ran a gentle, comforting hand over her tense shoulders, and Thor stood nearby, his blue eyes distant and his expression thoughtful. Fury had taken the 'new recruits' to a separate room a few minutes ago, apparently with the intention of more thoroughly explaining everything to them. The Doctor couldn't help but be dryly amused that he wasn't included in that bunch; perhaps it was because he wasn't expected to do anything beyond provide transport. Amy and Rory had gone with the rest of them, after Fury promised they'd get a full explanation of everything that was going on (Amy had looked eager, Rory mildly terrified, the last time the Doctor had gotten a glimpse of them).

"Well…" the blonde man cleared his throat, murmured his next words so soft that the Doctor could barely detect them, even with his superhuman Time Lord's senses. "Is there any way that you could… go back… and see someone, someone who's… dead, now?"

The Doctor's mouth twisted, and he turned back to the table, unwilling to meet the innocently hopeful blue of the other man's eyes any longer. "You're far from the first person to ask me that, you know?"

"Doctor—" He paused, took a deep breath and curled his fingers around the edge of the tabletop. Natasha's eyes subtly flickered over in their direction, taking in the scene. "I… did Fury ever tell you… what happened to me? How I got these… powers?"

"Never," the Doctor confirmed. He was certainly curious, though—it was obvious that Steve, unlike someone such as Bruce, whose condition had been thoroughly explained for all of their safety, was far from an accidental hero. "Pull up a chair, if you'd like, I'm all ears."

Steve didn't sit down, but he nodded to himself, and launched into quiet, swift speech, seemingly attempting to detail his own background in as brief a way as possible. "I was born in 1920," he began, wincing slightly at the words.

The Doctor's eyes widened, and he struggled to restrain his probably inappropriate delight. "Well, then, you're familiar with time travel?"

"Not… not exactly." He swallowed, released a short, stressed exhalation. "At the beginning of the second world war, I tried to enlist, but I was… scrawny, useless as a soldier. But I managed to get used as part of a project. These… Vita-Rays, they called them, they made me into… well, into what I am now." He shrugged, the action somehow emphasizing his wide shoulders and muscular build, and the Doctor nodded, showing his understanding.

"Doesn't explain how you managed to get yourself here, though."

"No, that was… an accident, really. There was plenty of buildup, but there's no reason to retell it all now. I ended up frozen in ice. They thought I was dead, I guess… didn't bring me back until… it couldn't have been more than a year ago."

The Doctor nodded, slowly, thoughtfully. "And there's someone in your old life that you want to see again? Say goodbye to? It does sound rather like you didn't have time to do so—being frozen is never exactly a planned incident, speaking from experience."

Apparently deciding to disregard the last three words, Steve plowed on, a bit of his anxiety slipping away. "Yes, well, there are several, but… I was just thinking of this one person…"

As he continued, the Time Lord listened intently, his chin dipping in a series of slow nods. "We could make that happen," he finally agreed, once Steve had finished. A tiny, almost shy smile formed on the super-soldier's lips, and the Doctor reinforced it with a wide grin, reaching out and shamelessly patting him on the back.

A few chairs away, Natasha's eyes were glinting. Anyone who wasn't in the room at the time never would have believed that the ice-cold spy could be brought to tears by mere words, and those who were never dared to mention it.

* * *

"Are you doing alright?" Sherlock asked out of the corner of his mouth, his voice low and his eyes not shifting from Nick Fury's tall form, pacing at the front of the room.

John let out a tiny, cracked burst of laughter, barely audible under Fury's loud, intense explanation of 'why they'd all gathered together.' "I'm fine," he muttered, barely above a whisper. "Just about as alright as I can be, considering the circumstances."

"I'll admit, you've… taken it much better than I expected you to," Sherlock confessed. John glanced towards him, an almost proud grin tugging at his face—which, Sherlock still couldn't quite adjust to, was much paler than he remembered it being. Pale, and tired, too—seemingly permanent purplish shadows under his eyes, a slightly longer, stringier look to his hair, raggedly short fingernails that hinted at nervous biting. All signs of insomnia, anxiety… Sherlock felt _guilty, _something he was far from used to, whenever he saw how much he had destroyed John.

"Yeah, well, it's hardly bad news. I don't see why I shouldn't take it well."

"Moriarty alive, and the Devil on the loose? I think that could be considered bad news."

"Holmes, Watson!" Fury snapped from the front of the room. John blinked quickly and straightened up, the amused expression melting off of his face as he snapped to attention in an action clearly reminiscent of his army days.

"Sir?"

"What I'm explaining now is extremely vital to your roles in defeating this criminal alliance," the Director growled. "I'd prefer it if you two didn't spend the time whispering back and forth like first-grade girls."

John gave a quick nod, and Sherlock sat back with a frustrated huff, folding his arms and tilting his chin superiorly. A hushed giggle came from the other side of the table, and he looked over to see the redheaded Scottish girl—Amy something or other—covering her mouth quickly. He glared at her, but she just gazed back, looking more entertained than anything else, until her husband finally gave her hand a light squeeze, redirecting her attention to Fury's lecture.

"As I was _saying, _Lucifer seems to be invincible, save a few numbered weaknesses, one of which is the blade of an archangel…"

* * *

_Beep. Beep. Beep. _

He ignored it at first. Maybe it would go away, if he just let himself relax, let the beautifully tempting prospect of sleep coast fully over his head again, drown out the irritating, repetitive noise, pull him into its depths and wind him up in nothingness…

_Beep. Beep._

Apparently, such a thing wasn't accessible.

_Beep._

"Shut up…" The words were heavy through his lips, and he was barely even aware of them, feeling only a vague, distant ache in his throat that hinted at speech.

"Dean?"

_Beep. Beep._

That voice… it was something important. Low, rasping, inexplicably anxious… something worth waking up for. But he didn't want to, even as he felt the warm pillowcase squashed against his sweaty cheek, hinting at irrevocable consciousness… the rest of his body seemed to fill itself in after that, throbbing arms, stinging legs… and something along his shoulder, creeping towards his chest and up against his neck, worse than all the rest, a numb, itching sort of pain arching across it every few seconds. His limbs were heavy, far too heavy, in a warm, comfortable sort of way.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

"Shit," he managed to get out, and this time he was fully aware of how the word scratched in his horribly dry mouth.

"Dean—Dean, can you hear me?"

That voice, goddamn. What was so important about it? His thoughts floated about vaguely, spiraling, until he finally managed to conjure a name to match to the rasping tones—

_Cas._

Oh, God, Cas.

"Cas—" His eyes opened just a tiny slit, revealing nothing but blurry gray-and-black shapes before him. Quickly, with the importance of Cas's presence straining in his mind, he tried to lift his head, but such a thing only sent his mind spinning wildly, and he groaned, senses going numb for a moment as he crashed painfully back onto the pillow. "Cas…"

"No—relax," the angel urged in that beautiful rough murmur, and something light and warm coasted along Dean's sore shoulder, almost tentatively. "Are you… how do you feel, Dean?"

"Like utter shit, what d'you expect?" he groaned. "How—Lucifer…" His brain suddenly seemed to freeze at the name emerging from his own lips. _Lucifer. Lucifer, identical to Sam… _where had he gone? Weakly, he attempted once more to lift his head, but the hand trailing along his shoulder moved to cup the side of his jaw, pressing it firmly into the pillow.

"Don't struggle," Castiel urged.

"But… Lucifer…"

"We're safe, Dean," the angel whispered. "Lucifer's gone. We were saved… taken away from there, by… friends of mine."

"Friends?" Dean repeated. His surroundings were slowly coming into clearer focus, and he could make out a number of hulking silver-and-white machines, presumably the source of the obnoxious beeping noise, as well as the blurry tan form of Cas's trench coat wrapped around the angel himself, who seemed to be sitting in a chair next to the stiff bed that Dean was splayed on top of. "What… other angels?"

"No, humans. Humans and… an alien."

"An alien," Dean hacked, dizziness beginning to set over him again at the prospect. "Aliens don't exist, idiot, they…"

"Yes, they do," Castiel corrected him. Now the hand was moving tenderly over his hair, fingers caressing it softly. Summoning up the best of his effort, Dean managed to lift one log-heavy arm, moved his tingling fingers up to press down over Cas's wrist, holding it in place.

"Can you stop with the petting me, maybe?" he slurred. "No offense, dude, but it's a bit gay…"

He obediently paused, but kept his hand in place nonetheless. Dean didn't object to this—it was rather pleasant, actually, the feeling of that warm skin against his cheek, though he'd never admit to such a thing.

"So," he muttered, managing to turn slightly, shifting into a more comfortable position with the back of his head against the pillow rather than the side of his face. "Alien? An alien who can help us get rid of Lucifer, hopefully?"

"I believe their plan is to help us," Castiel confirmed. "Lucifer has allies who they're firmly set against, as well."

"Great." Blinking thickly, Dean managed to adjust his vision even farther, so that Cas's face swam fully into view, hovering over his. The angel looked a bit more tired than usual, but there was also a sort of sweetness to his features, a tentative light that could almost be called _happy. _His blue eyes shone like twin sapphires through the misty grayness wreathing the hunter's vision, and the air in Dean's lungs seemed to freeze for a second, his still-hazy mind rendering him momentarily breathless from the beauty of that powerful, piercing azure. He stared without thinking, his lips still slightly parted and his chest heaving steadily, as he slowly realized just how much he'd _missed _Castiel. Ever since the day they'd averted the Apocalypse, he'd been so focused on the loss of Sam, but Cas—Cas was practically as important as Dean's own brother, as he processed now. And seeing him like this, almost smiling… something was twisting in Dean's chest, something entirely unfamiliar, nearly breaking as the angel opened his mouth to speak.

"We're in their hospital ward now; you were unconscious for several hours," he went on. "They thought… for a while, that…" His dark eyebrows drew together, the corners of his mouth tilting downwards. "That they'd come too late."

"Bet you knew that I could pull through, though, didn't you?" Dean chuckled. "I've been through more than this and gotten out alive, you know that. Hell, that time you kicked my ass stung more than these little scrapes." That was a lie, but it slightly eased the suddenly vivid pain in the angel's eyes, and that made it worthwhile.

"I did have faith in you," Cas agreed softly. "I told them that you were strong… I wasn't in the best shape myself, though," he admitted, looking almost ashamed.

That odd new part of Dean's chest tensed as his last sighting of Cas rose to the surface of his memory. Doubled over on the floor of Lucifer's mansion, his blue eyes half-open, hands pressed tight against an area just above his hip…

"You were hurt."

"Stabbed, by a violent brother. But… once they allowed me the chance to recover myself, I managed to do so quite easily."

"Good," Dean grunted. "But, Cas—next time that you're already hurt, don't come after me, you got that?"

"I didn't have any choice," he objected seriously, his eyes flashing. "I couldn't leave you with Lucifer, Dean, I—"

"Sure you could've. I'm not worth you, alright?"

"You're worth everything," Castiel murmured. And the way in which he said the words, so _matter-of-fact,_ as though there couldn't possibly be any other order to things… the pulsing ache in Dean's chest seemed to swell suddenly, until it was blocking his throat, blocking everything.

"I missed you," he mumbled. He was suddenly burningly aware of the hand on his cheek, of the curve where their skin touched.

"And I you. Though… it was good to know that you were happy."

"What, with Lisa? Come on, Cas, she was… I mean, she was great, but she didn't come anywhere close to you and Sam. I thought I wanted that life, but it wasn't worth it, y'know. Wasn't worth giving you up, not both of you. But now—now I have you back, right, so we don't have to worry about that."

"You don't have Sam back," said Cas, his gaze flickering down to the blankets drawn up over Dean's bed and his chin drooping.

"I'll make it, though," Dean insisted. "I've got you. And that's good enough for me, to be honest."

The angel looked up again, their stares locked for a long moment, and the pounding of Dean's heart increased into an almost deafening thud in his ears as the tender part of his chest contorted more fiercely than ever.

* * *

An hour later, Nick Fury was finally done filling the last few Avengers in on their enemies' motives, and the whole group was gathered together in the main conference room—even Cas and Dean stood in a corner. (That is, Cas stood, while Dean was propped up in a wheelchair that he cast continuous glares at as though it had personally offended him.) Sherlock and John were in chairs at the long table, along with Tony, Bruce, Rory, and Amy. Thor maintained his usual position near the door, his powerful arms folded, and Clint and Natasha lurked in the corners, trying to avoid as much attention as possible. The two of them, used to working in the shadows, were clearly uncomfortable with such a large group. Fury, as usual, stood at the front of the room, his hands joined behind his back, watching over them all. The only ones absent were the Doctor and Steve, who were apparently 'otherwise occupied' for the time being.

"They're going to attack soon," Sherlock was saying, staring into space with his fingers poised under his chin, his eyes shining pure cyan under the harsh fluorescent lighting. "Their original plan was to target those closest to each of us, and we beat them to that, practically without effort. In doing so, we also expanded our ranks—every fighter counts, no matter how human they may be. Moriarty and the rest know that they can't afford to wait any longer, in case we manage to track down any more recruits. At the moment, our power is almost equal—yes, there are only four of them," he plowed on irritably at Rory's small noise of disbelief, "but they're immensely strong, much more so than us. They'll want to take us out as soon as possible. The Master is the only one whose appearance we aren't familiar with, so he'll almost certainly be the one to try and initially break our defenses. Director, I suggest maximum security—don't let a single unfamiliar person in, under any circumstances."

Fury nodded, not questioning the genius's orders despite his own superior position.

"The rest of you, don't leave this building. Consider it put on lockdown. Where are Captain Rogers and the Doctor? They need to be—"

At that exact moment, the door was flung open to reveal the two missing Avengers, both of their expressions surprisingly bright. The Doctor was simply beaming, and Steve had an unshakable sort of smile clinging to his features.

"Right here," the Time Lord declared, stepping up to the nearest chair and pulling it out with a flourish. "Sorry for our lateness, it's awfully easy to overshoot when it comes to time travel—"

"Time travel?" Dean choked from the corner. "Isn't that an angel thing?"

"Is it?" the Doctor questioned interestedly, his eyes shifting to Castiel, who shrugged a bit awkwardly.

"It takes great amounts of energy—"

"Never mind that," Sherlock snapped, "where were you all this time?"

"Holmes," Fury began, but the Doctor raised his hand, cutting him off.

"Nothing big," the alien reassured him, winking back towards the blonde captain standing behind him. "Just a few months into the past, took mere minutes. Steve here had some trading cards to sign."


	13. Twisted

**A/N** _And now a little drop by the villains, because it's needed. The start of this chapter is all the way back after the Avengers rescued Cas and Dean, but over the course of the chapter, everything's brought back up to the present. _

**Thanks to** _Basia Orci, mudkipz, Cynder713, elmoisemo6, Mirabilem Electo, uniqueKATYgleek, and BakerTennant'sTardis__  
_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own the Avengers/Doctor Who/Supernatural/Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER XIII. **_Twisted_

Lucifer was pacing. Not in a thoughtful way, but rather a frustrated, aggressive one, practically kicking the floor with each step, his teeth clenched tight together and his eyes shining dark and furious. The other three watched him warily, standing near the walls of the room—Moriarty, small and sleek as always, Loki, looking paler than he had since they'd first brought him back from Asgard, and the Master.

The Time Lord's new form was even blonder than the last one, his ragged, chin-length hair the color of pale straw. His face was gaunter, his figure taller and thinner, but in a powerful sort of way. Stubble ran along his long jaw, and his eyes shone ice-cold, paler blue even than Loki's. From the best the rest of them could tell, this new regeneration of his was much more aloof and cool-tempered than the previous one—rather than laughing at the thought of destruction, he'd simply pull his thin lips into an eerie smile, something hinting at darker workings inside his head. For the most part, he seemed entirely unrecognizable. An advantage to the four of them, but Lucifer's mind wasn't very focused on advantages at the moment.

"That damned alien," he kept snarling, every few seconds, the words often coupled with a furious glare in the Master's direction. "A time machine, a _time machine_, and with such clean transport…"

"The Master did warn you, you know," Moriarty commented. Rather than being tense like the rest of them, the extra chaos seemed to induce a twisted sort of glee inside of his shriveled heart. "He told us all about the TARDIS… just staying in the room with them would have been a sufficient precaution."

"Silence, human!" Lucifer's form seemed to flash, moving swifter than a bolt of lightning, and then he had Moriarty up against the wall, his heavy hand barring the smaller man's throat, his face contorted into a mask of fury. "I am an angel, you insignificant being; you have no right to speak to me like your equal!"

Moriarty tipped his head back, knocking it against the wall, and inhaled slowly, his throat straining against the Devil's grip. After a long moment, he let the air back out—but rather than speaking, he simply laughed. The sound was high-pitched, like glass shattering, and utterly insane in a way that sent static chills down Loki's spine. The Master's expression remained impassive, however, and Lucifer grew even more livid.

"You dare to laugh at me? I could smite you into ash without even applying any effort—"

"But you wouldn't do that," the psychopath drawled lazily, his voice distorted through Lucifer's hold on his neck. "You'd never do it, because you need me… you all need me," he emphasized, his dark eyes swerving to take in the Master and Loki. "You may be superhuman, but it's my ideas… my mind… that will help you through this. You know that, don't you?"

"And what have you provided so far that's brilliant enough to get us out of this?" the Master pointed out, his new voice low and rugged, slightly Welsh-sounding. "Best I can see, you're more extra luggage than anything else."

Loki's eyebrows flew together, and he took a quick step closer to the Master, speaking swiftly in his ear. "Don't be a fool—he's your friend, he—"

"I don't have friends," the Time Lord growled back, glaring down at the dark-haired Frost Giant as though he was an infernal nuisance rather than a legendary god. "I've changed, Loki, it's about time you've realized it."

"You are rather useless yourself, aren't you, Laufeyson?" Lucifer murmured almost thoughtlessly, slowly oscillating his head around to stare at him. "Perhaps the Master and I would have been better off if we'd never brought either of you back… maybe we still can get rid of you, operate on our own…"

"No—no, you can't," Loki objected, fear suddenly vivid in his light irises as he stepped away from the fallen angel, took a quick step back and shook his head quickly. "I know the Avengers better than any of you, you won't be able to reach them without me…"

"We don't even care about your Avengers." Lucifer finally released his clutch on Moriarty, who relaxed with a lazy sigh and slumped against the wall, a poisonous grin touching his lips as his eyelids drooped half-shut. The Devil's expression, however, remained as intense as ever as he slowly approached Loki, his hands balled into loose fists at his sides. "We're only after them in the first place because we agreed to ally with you, and why? We certainly didn't owe you anything. As a matter of fact, we went out of our ways to reach you… to bring you back…" He was slowly getting closer, and the Frost Giant was stumbling backwards, his eyes wide, not so much as breathing. "I don't see what you've done to repay that effort."

"Leave him alone," Moriarty finally spoke up, sounding careless. "You realize, Lucifer, that your little Dean and Castiel are now under the protection of the Avengers, along with the Master's and my boys? They're all together now. It's the stupidest time for us to split up."

Lucifer glanced over his shoulder, breathing heavily, his arm extended towards Loki, who was unmoving save the rapid flickering of his wide eyes. There was a long pause, then the angel finally let his arm drop, his lips curled back from his teeth in repulsion.

"Fine," he spat. "There's no use killing you before we've gotten rid of the rest. But after the Avengers are defeated… you'd best watch your back, Loki Laufeyson. And you as well, James Moriarty."

"I prefer Jim," the human murmured disinterestedly, glancing towards the Master, whose long arms were folded, fingers gripping his elbows. "You know," he said softly to the Time Lord, "your new form looks rather like a friend of mine, I can't quite shake it…"

The Master's features drew into a scowl, but Lucifer interrupted any potential response by striding back into the center of the room, a center point between the three others—terrified, arrogant, and aloof—his shoulders heaving with frustration and his hands still clawed at his sides.

"We need to attack them," he declared, "and the sooner, the better. They're like corpses—the longer we leave them alone, the more they'll _stink._"

"A respectable analogy," Moriarty chuckled.

"Not only stink," Loki spoke up, sounding almost nervous. Now that the Master had regenerated into a more psychologically strong form, the supposed god somehow found himself at the bottom of the social ladder their little group formed. "The untrained ones—the Doctor, Holmes, Castiel—they'll be able to work up their strength. There are powerful people working for SHIELD, they'll be able to—"

"That settles it, then," Lucifer interrupted fiercely. "We won't hesitate. We'll go for it _now._"

"Now, slow down," Moriarty began.

"Slow down?" the Devil growled. "You're telling _me _to slow down? And here I thought you were the _insane _one. All for impulsive decisions."

"You thought wrong." The dark-haired man wrinkled his nose and fingered at the edge of his suit. "I tend to use my mind… think things out. And I realize, unlike the rest of you—save perhaps Loki—that these Avengers are much more physically powerful than we are. The best thing to do is absolutely not to launch a full-on attack."

"Oh, isn't it now?" Lucifer breathed, his tone deadly. "Are you questioning my leadership?"

"I'm questioning the wisdom of your choices." Moriarty glanced over at the other three, who were now all watching him intently, waiting for his next words. His mouth curved into a shark-like grin, and he went on, his words flowing in an almost rhythmic manner. "It's simple. The Master is our greatest advantage—his transformation ensures that the darling little Avengers will have no idea how he looks, sounds, or acts. All we have to do is wait for an opening in their defenses—at some point, they'll need to let _someone _into their base building, whether it be an additional agent or a pizza delivery man. We hack into their security, keep tabs on who they're calling in—such a thing won't be too hard for me, rest assured."

"Their technology is remarkable," Loki began slowly.

"Trust me on this one. Now, with him planted firmly in their base, all we need to do is abduct the weaknesses of our enemies. I've done my research, know a few names—Jane Foster, Pepper Potts… those two, unfortunately, are already protected by SHIELD. Easier targets will undoubtedly be those of the newly recruited members. John Watson." He drew out the name as though it burned his tongue, and yet like he savored every instant of the pain. "_Live-in _assistant of Sherlock Holmes. Absolutely exposed and vulnerable at 221b Baker Street in London. And, of course, Amy and Rory Pond. You don't know them," he added in the direction of the Master, "but the Doctor does."

"How do you?" the Master asked suspiciously, his fog-colored eyes narrowing.

"Oh, it's _absurdly _simple. Our security cameras got a glimpse of a face inside the TARDIS that didn't match up to any of SHIELD's agents. Clearly, the Doctor. It was from then on nothing beyond the matter of running a facial scan—not unlike those used by the organization itself—to check for him in any public place in recent times. Well, he hasn't just been popping up for the last few years; more like several centuries. And with him, two others—identified easily as Amy and Rory Pond, now living on their own, also in England. Watson and the Ponds will be easy enough to fetch for ourselves. With the Master situated at SHIELD and those three in this pleasant little mansion, the Avengers will be at every disadvantage. Elementary," he finished delicately, that eerie smile seeming to stretch his features to an inhuman degree.

Lucifer frowned for a moment, as if trying to come up with a proper argument, then resigned to give a slow nod. "It seems as though it might work," he agreed grudgingly, glancing towards the Master and Loki, neither of which objected. "Fine, then." Clearly uncomfortable with not being first in command, he quickly snapped into order-giving mode, scowling at Moriarty's smirking face. "You said you could hack into SHIELD's system and let us know when they—"

"I did," the human confirmed lightly. "And so I can." Holding a hand up for silence, he reached into his front suit pocket and withdrew a sleek mobile phone, which he gave a couple of quick taps. "Looks like we have an opening just now, incidentally. Oooh, and here I thought I was being hypothetical with the concept of a pizza man…" He glanced up at the Master. "Three larges, under the name of Stark. Anyone here a good cook?"

* * *

"They're gone," Loki announced in a deadly whisper, flinging open the door. The noise echoed through the mansion's massive pool room, rebounding off the pale aquamarine surfaces and wide white walls.

Moriarty glanced up from his position, lounging in the large hot tub in the corner of the room. Foam and bubbles were accumulating around his swim trunk-wearing form, his pale fingers splayed on the tile floor. "All of them?" he questioned, the low rumble of his voice blending into the heavy purr of the pipes.

"All of them," the Frost Giant agreed, nodding hastily. He looked horribly out of place in the room, wearing a different but still stiffly pressed suit, damp strands of dark hair over his forehead indicating that he rushed to share the news. "Watson, the Ponds… all vanished, presumably SHIELD's work."

"Hm… well, that _is _a bit of a problem." Moriarty lifted his right hand slowly, trailing his fingertips along the floor of the room before submerging them in the warm water. "Why don't you join me? There's no reason why we shouldn't talk this out in comfort."

"I'd rather not," said Loki, a delicate sneer of distaste forming over his face. "Heat… isn't comfortable for me."

"No, I suppose it's not." Moriarty's voice was pouting, mopey. "Oh, well… I'm sure Lucifer would be keen, but he's too busy being furious at the world, isn't he?"

"I believe we all are."

"No, no, no." Pulling his hand back out of the water, he waved a dripping finger in Loki's direction. "Not _angry _at the world, darling, _bored _of it. Never make the mistake of lumping me in with all those mundane murderers… I'm far beyond that. Even if you look down on me for being human, all of you… oh, I see it… I laugh at it, though, because it's your mistake, to underestimate me…"

Loki swallowed and took a step back. The truth was that he, at least, far from underestimated Moriarty. He was well aware of who he was dealing with, didn't even try to take the top position. After all, he didn't have any desire to be violent among these people—they were his allies. The Master and Moriarty created chaos for the sake of chaos, and Lucifer's motivation would always be revenge on the brothers who betrayed him, but Loki—he was different. No one had ever turned on him. It was more the matter that none of them ever _understood. _He had respected Thor, Odin, Frigga—all of his family, and he still did, even as, however painfully, he acknowledged them as his enemies. No, it was only _lesser _creatures that he looked down on. The Frost Giants (which he had been raised to hate, after all), the humans. Oh, the humans… they were scum. Bacteria. Moriarty, however, was a specimen. He stood out from humans as much as Loki did from Frost Giants, was at an equal level with the rest of them, with Lucifer and the Master. And those three, to Loki, at least, were true _allies. _None of the other three saw their team quite the same way. It was a military tool for them, a shaky grouping meant for their common advantage.

And yet, Loki… Loki almost saw the other ones as _friends. _Therefore Moriarty, being one of them, had his respect as much as any of the rest.

"Perhaps," he suggested softly, "you shouldn't 'lump me in' with _them, _either."

"Oh… shouldn't I?" Moriarty gave this a moment of thought, then nodded slowly. Without speaking another word, he heaved himself out of the hot tub, stepping out onto the tile floor and reaching for the nearest fluffy white towel, which he wrapped around his waist slowly, as if contemplating each move. "Maybe I shouldn't." He straightened up and folded his arms. "In any case, dear, it's rather obvious that you're sick of the steam in here. Go contact the Master for me. Tell him that our targets are inaccessible… and that he should launch the little plan that he and I discussed earlier."

"Yes." Loki gave a quick, grateful nod, then ducked out of the room immediately, not lingering for so much as a farewell.

"Really hate the heat, do you?" Moriarty mused to the empty room, then laughed, high and fluttery. "No wonder you and Lucifer don't get along well."

* * *

The device in the Master's pocket beeped.

He swore under his breath, nearly tipping his janitor's cart over in surprise at the sudden loud noise. A passing agent frowned slightly at him, and he avoided her eyes, pushing the cleaning supplies over to the nearest door labeled as a stairwell. This disguise was certainly tedious, but, then again, they could hardly expect a pizza man to hang around forever. Still, the uniform itched like hell.

Elbowing open the door, he wheeled his cart backwards, into the cold, dingy space. Metal stairs, dirty and empty, spiraled up and down, and he found himself on a small grate of a landing, practically unlit save an amber emergency lamp attached to the wall, covered by a thin lattice of rusty bars and sending long shadows over the claustrophobic space. Leaning against the damp wall, he fished out the little communication device, shaped like a simple mobile phone but approximately fifty-seven times harder to track than any human technology, and glanced down at its screen.

_Watson and Ponds already held by SHIELD, _the glowing print informed him. _M says to begin a previously discussed plan._

That was all there was. Presumably sent by Loki, the Master reflected, the thought almost humorous—a rare occurrence in his new regeneration's typically grim mind. Even before Lucifer came along, back when the Doctor was still in his Tenth regeneration and he, Moriarty, and Loki had their own small union, the Frost Giant always seemed pulled in to do the work that the human was too lazy for. Come to think of it, they'd both done much more for Moriarty than he'd ever done for them… perhaps something worth begrudging, but the Master _liked _Moriarty, admired his ruthlessness and his cleverness, and genuine appreciation of a person was something that could be hard to shake.

_M says to begin a previously discussed plan…_

Well, he certainly knew what that was. _Previously discussed plan. _The Master didn't smile, but his eyes glinted in anticipation.

He certainly wouldn't need the janitor costume any more, that was for certain. He ripped off the nametag—_John Smith, _a little inside joke that the Doctor would never get the chance to appreciate—and threw it to the floor, meanwhile unlooping the tie of his absurdly formal uniform and tossing it down the stairwell. It squirmed and twisted in the air like a snake, vanishing into the deep shadows before he could see it hit the ground.

A cruel smirk kinked the corner of his mouth as he turned, starting up the stairs, savoring the noisy creaks of the metal under his shoes.

This would be fun—and _fun _wasn't a phrase that his new regeneration used lightly.


	14. Avenging

**A/N** _Penultimate chapter, guys! Only the closing after this. I really have loved writing and posting this, and receiving feedback from each and every one of you. Thank you so much!_

_*EDIT 1/12/13: Yes, I know that it isn't the most action-oriented climax. This is due more than anything to the word count that I tried not to go over. I personally would have liked to re-write it, but I was moving very quickly at this point and didn't get the opportunity. My disappointment in my own execution of this chapter is one of the reasons why I'm now working on a sequel, hopefully with a better-done "final battle." _

**Thanks to** _Basia Orci, elmoisemo6, Mirabilem Electo, Byrneshadow, and anon_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own the Avengers/Doctor Who/Supernatural/Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

**CHAPTER XIV. **_Avenging_

The words had barely slipped from the Doctor's mouth when a sudden bolt of noise shattered the quiet atmosphere of the room, causing half its occupants to jump in alarm and surprise. The sound, high-pitched and whining, slowly stretched into the wail of a siren, and the lights above the conference table flared sudden, vibrant red. The faces of all the Avengers gleamed ominous crimson, which likewise reflected in the sclera of all their wide, confused eyes.

"Security's down," Fury yelled after a moment of stunned hesitation, racing to the door and making to push it open. It remained firmly in place, even when he threw his entire weight against it. "Locked," he hissed.

"They've made their move," Sherlock breathed, his gaze slowly lifting to the ceiling. Long, deep scarlet shadows were coasting over his cheeks and forehead, exaggerating his features eerily. John stepped towards him automatically, his hand reaching out to settle on Sherlock's forearm, and the detective didn't object.

"They're here?" Tony exclaimed. "Now? And we're all separated from our suits and weapons, too… oh, those sons of _bitches…_"

Dean glanced over at him, eyebrows raised, then back to Cas, who was standing stiffly at his side, expression paralyzed. "Lucifer?" he questioned in an undertone, and the angel gave a small, horrified nod.

"Not only Lucifer," Fury growled, running his hand over the metal of the secured door. "Loki."

"The Master," the Doctor added. He reached out to wrap his fingers around Amy's wrist, clutching it tightly and protectively. She extended her other arm to Rory, gripping his hand as the sounds of shouting and what might have been gunshots exploded from outside. Her hazel gaze was glued to the door, her lips pressed tightly together.

"Moriarty," Sherlock added in a bare whisper, still not looking away from the ceiling, as though that was where the threat resided.

"And we're all in here?" Natasha demanded, standing up with her palms braced against the tabletop. "What kind of security locks us in our own room? Can't you override it?"

"Not this." Fury shook his head grimly. "There's no set program to do this—there must have been work from inside forces, that's the only way the system could possibly work so bizarrely."

"Inside forces?" Steve repeated from where he stood at the Doctor's back. "You mean… someone's turned on us?"

"I don't know how it happened, Rogers, but we're trapped now," the Director growled.

"Wait," Thor spoke up suddenly, extending an arm into midair. Dean and Sherlock scowled at him, but Bruce, Tony, Steve, and Natasha's faces lit up with comprehension and the faintest hint of what might have been hope. Several seconds passed, seeming to last forever, then a massive, cracking bang sounded against the wall, fierce enough to cause Dean, John, and Rory to slam their hands instinctively over their ears in protest.

"What the hell was that?" Dean choked, once the residual ringing had silenced itself. But before anyone could provide an answer, there was another bang, even louder. The noises continued, pounding in a harsh, unending pattern, until cracks suddenly began to materialize along the wall, long and ominous. Thor's eyes narrowed, and he flexed his fingers as if beckoning.

"They're breaking through!" Rory burst out, but the Doctor shook his head, staring in wonder. There were exactly three more slamming bursts of noise before the wall splintered, a large chunk of smoking metal falling away as a shimmering missile shot through it. Rory yelped and ducked, and Dean lifted his bandaged hands defensively, but there was no need—with a ringing hum, Mjölnir settled into the palm of a satisfied-looking Thor, who hefted it proudly, looking much more comfortable with his weapon in hand.

"What…" Dean choked.

"He's not just _called _Thor," Castiel offered softly by way of explanation, and the hunter's eyes grew to approximately the size of saucers as the Norse god threw back his head and laughed, low and deep.

"Let us see what they have to offer now!" he bellowed, his muscles bending as he swung the gargantuan hammer around and brought it into contact with the wall, sending another series of cracks over it. Apparently, the force of his arms gave it a good deal more strength, because this time it took only two blows to cause a large portion of the metal to collapse, leaving a darkened gap large enough for a full-grown man to get out of. Outside, the hall was a mess of shadows and chaos, lit only by the same swiveling red lights as the conference room. A few agents cut clean silhouettes over the smoky crimson, guns held at their shoulders, shouting back and forth to one another.

"What's their _plan?_" Sherlock murmured, quiet enough that only John heard him. "They found a way to break in, so they disable the security, lock us here—" Then his eyes suddenly flashed wide open, and he sprang to his feet, shouting. "Everyone, get out! We're going to be bombed!"

"What?" Dean yelped in alarm.

"It's the only possible—why would they lock us somewhere unless they intended to try and take us all out in one blow?"

"Maybe they were going to come in, shoot us down?" Tony offered wildly. "There's no reason to believe that a _bomb_…"

"There's every reason!" Sherlock fumed. "Many people here are practically immortal—Doctor, Thor, Castiel—but no one is immune to something like _that, _it would rip us apart down to the very DNA if it was powerful enough—all of SHIELD will be targeted, we have to get everyone out of the building!"

"It seems like a long leap, even for you, Holmes," Fury muttered, "but I've learned better than to doubt your judgment. Everyone, you heard him! Out of here—Thor, lead the way, let Mjölnir break down any locked doors. Gather any agents that you see!"

"What about you?" Steve questioned as the director climbed through the hole in the wall, the hem of his dark coat dragging in the rubble.

"I'm going to clear the place out," he explained roughly. "But you all need to get out of here, now. I'm expendable, you're not." With that, he began to dash down the corridor, leaving the rest with no choice but to do as he said.

"Cas," Dean hissed under his breath as Tony and Steve stepped into the hall, "can't you transport us out of here?"

"I cannot take heavy loads, or many," the angel murmured almost shamefully, his eyes lowered. "Not when I'm still recovering from my injury…"

"Some of them, then," Dean demanded. "Come on, man, you can't just let them all explode—there's no way everyone's gonna make it out of here alive!"

Cas deliberated for a half-second, then gave a swift nod. "Three," he decided. "I can take three—any more could be damaging, and I can't risk losing someone mid-flight."

"Fine," Dean agreed, his teeth gritted. "Everyone!" His throat ached with the effort that it took to yell over the din of the sirens, but he managed to catch the attention of at least a couple of the Avengers, who glanced over at him. "Cas can take any three people out in a flash, is there anyone who can't fight?"

Without so much as hesitating, the Doctor took Amy and Rory by the shoulders and shoved them in the angel's direction. The ginger opened her mouth to voice a heated protest, but he lifted a finger to her lips, his eyes deadly serious.

"Get out of here, Pond," he insisted. "It's my fault that you're here in the first place, understand?"

"Amy, come on," Rory urged, not hesitating at all at Castiel's offer.

She glared at the Doctor for a long, tense moment, her eyes flashing, then ripped herself away, holding on tight to Rory's wrist as they sprinted over to the angel's side.

"One more!" Dean barked.

"Dean," Cas protested. "Don't be ridiculous, I'm taking you."

"Like hell you are. Dr. Watson, isn't it? We can—"

"You're not taking me," said John fiercely, his hand slipping under his jacket and coming back out with its fingers wrapped around a handgun. "I'm not leaving Sherlock's side."

"Dean." Now the angel was half-begging, even as the hunter belligerently proceeded to ignore him. "Please, listen to me—you're in a wheelchair, you need—"

"I don't need anything!" Dean snarled, reaching up to grip the front of a surprised-looking Cas's coat with his battered fingers. "Listen to me, I am not going in the place of these people. I'm not worth it."

"Yes you are," Cas replied simply.

"God _damn _it, Cas—"

"I'm not leaving you," the angel breathed raggedly, and then, without giving either of them time enough to speak another word, he flung his arm out in the direction of the Ponds. Amy gripped his forearm immediately, and Rory settled an uncertain hand on his elbow. Before Dean could protest, Cas latched onto his shoulder, twisted slightly, and then the four of them were gone in a flash of light, leaving only the original Avengers, Sherlock, John, and the Doctor.

"Let's get the hell out of here!" Tony shouted.

"Here," the Doctor interjected. Amidst the crimson flares of the hallway was the vivid blue form of the TARDIS, which he quickly opened, stepping back to let them all file in.

"We'll have to stop in the weapons room," Tony declared. "We all need to pick up our suits if we want any hope of defeating these suckers."

"Maybe…" the Doctor started, but Steve shook his head quickly.

"He's right. Please, Doctor, we have minutes—seconds, even."

Tight-jawed, the Time Lord finally nodded, just as the last person—John—stepped inside. He closed the door and darted to the console, hands seeming to blur with the speed that they ran over the knobs and levers. Soon enough, the takeoff groan was filling the air, and, just as quickly, he raced over to open the door, revealing a small, dark chamber, seemingly unaffected by the sirens, though the faint klaxon wail was still audible through what were presumably very thick walls.

"Grab your guns and whatnot and let's get out of here," he said. Tony, Steve, Clint, and Natasha rapidly made their way over to a series of wide metal lockers, swinging them open and revealing the contents. Natasha and Steve both fetched folded-over fabric suits, while Clint heaved a quiver of arrows over his back.

Tony's locker was the widest, and with good reason—it contained the mechanics required to fit his own gleaming metal suit over his figure even as he stood there, the golden mask plate clicking over his face just as Clint irritably shouted for him to "Hurry up!" He raced back into the TARDIS, shut the door quickly behind him, and then the Doctor was resetting the coordinates again, the engine was whooshing and everyone in the console bay let out a tiny exhalation of relief.

"We're not out of danger yet," Natasha reminded them, hefting the mound of dark material in her arms.

"You two go change," Tony directed her and Steve, pointing a metallic finger towards the doors leading out of the console bay. "We're going to need you to help us once we get outside."

"Who's to say that our enemies will even _be _there?" Bruce pointed out dubiously, his dark eyes skeptical. "If it's something like a bomb, they're all too likely to operate at a distance…"

"You're right," Tony agreed suddenly, then turned to the Doctor. "Doctor, any chance that you could bring us back to that mansion? Best that we end this now."

The Time Lord nodded, fiddling slightly with the knobs, and moments later the console bay went silent. They had arrived. After a few seconds of waiting tensely, Tony let out an impatient groan, the noise oddly muffled from under his helmet. "Send Cap and Black Widow out once they're suited up, will you?" he requested. "Assuming that you don't want to be part of the fighting here."

"Not a problem," the Doctor confirmed.

"Good. Hawkeye, Thor, Holmes, Watson—let's do this. Dr. Banner?" he added, and even though it wasn't visible, there was little doubt that he was grinning.

"It's probably best if I get out of here first," Bruce suggested with a wry smile, glancing around the TARDIS.

"Truer words never spoken. Alright, team, let's go. Holmes and Watson, try to stay near the back—you're much more vulnerable than the rest of us. Hell—Holmes, do you even have a gun?"

Sherlock's eyebrows drew together, and a cold expression closed over John's face. "You're not coming," he murmured, his tone resolute. The detective opened his mouth, ready to protest, but the ex-soldier didn't give him a chance. "Don't even think about it. I lost you once, and that was bad enough. I'll be fine out there—I fought against an army, there's no reason why these four should be a challenge."

The two of them shared a long, electric stare, such an intense, intimate look that the others found themselves glancing away, feeling intrusive.

"Get a room, will you two?" Iron Man suggested, clearing his throat. "Though not at this exact moment—we've got a couple of aliens and the Devil to fight, as you'll remember."

John nodded, hefting his gun. "I'm ready," he declared. Thor pushed the TARDIS door open, and they spilled out, leaving Sherlock and the Doctor behind, watching with wide eyes.

"You care about him, don't you?" the Time Lord murmured, glancing over at the detective as the door shut firmly.

Sherlock didn't answer, but his eyes conveyed everything left unsaid.

* * *

Moriarty was waiting for them.

They'd landed in the very middle of the mostly empty living room this time, a massive place filled with expensive décor and cushy armchairs, the vaulted golden ceiling arching high above them. In one of the chairs, a deep wine-colored one, sat the criminal mastermind, a smirk curving his mouth and his fingers forming a pale steeple underneath his chin.

"So you managed to evade my little bomb threat," he chuckled. "Congratulations."

Hawkeye had an arrow nocked and aimed in a split second, and John's gun was pointed straight at the psychopath's head, his eyes bright with rage. Thor and Iron Man stood poised to attack, neither of them moving. Bruce was at the back, still in his fully human form, staring unblinkingly.

Moriarty laughed again, bringing his arms down to rest them on his lap. "Go on, then," he offered, his tone inappropriately humorous. "Shoot me. Kill me. Lucifer will only bring me back… because you _can't _defeat him. You do realize that, don't you? You won't be able to kill the Devil, boys… in fact, it's probably best that you get out of here while you're still alive…" His eyes flickered up and met John's, dark and piercing. The soldier swallowed, but his arm didn't shake, eve as sweat began to condense at his hairline.

"Anxious, are you?" Moriarty purred in delight. "Oh, yes, I'd imagine so… religious man, aren't you, Dr. Watson? Not blatantly so, of course, but you go to church on the holidays, you_pray… _and you know, you _know _that you don't stand a chance against Satan. You know everything he's done… how powerful he is… run away now, little soldier, run away while you can… you're _nothing _against him. Not even powerful enough to save your precious boyfriend from committing _suicide—_"

The shot rang clearly through the air, and Thor, Clint, Bruce, and Tony stiffened in shock—Moriarty jerked once, the eerie smile still frozen on his face, a dark stain swiftly beginning to spread over the front of his Westwood suit. John lowered his gun immediately, something vivid and liquid in his eyes, his chest heaving.

"And stay dead, you bastard," he whispered.

The TARDIS door swung open again, and out came Steve and Natasha, fully decked out as Captain America and Black Widow. "Is he dead?" was the first thing Natasha said, her eyes finding Moriarty immediately.

"As a doornail," Tony confirmed, still sounding rather surprised himself.

Natasha glanced towards John, who stared at the floor, then nodded softly to herself. "The other three must be here somewhere, let's go—"

"Moriarty?" came a ragged gasp.

The seven Avengers wheeled around in time to see the figure of Loki, his eyes wide and his mouth open, standing at the top of the second floor's wraparound landing, his fingers curled around the copper railing. He was wearing a dark gray suit, but as they watched, his expression changed from shock to fierce anger, and his outfit shimmered and shifted into the familiar green-and-gold battle gear of the God of Mischief, complete with gleaming, long-horned helmet.

"You killed him?" he demanded, shouting roughly. "You—you murdered him!"

"And you're one to talk about murder?" Thor demanded, pacing to the front of the group. He held Mjölnir at his side, loosely, in a stance that was far from threatening. "You, who nearly destroyed a _planet—_"

"Do _not_ bring that up now!" In a flash, Loki was down the stairs, his long cape fluttering behind him and his lips drawn into a sneering grimace. "It belongs in the past. This is about the present, brother—your _friend _just killed my ally." He took another step, even closer, and Hawkeye's bow strained, his eyes narrowing.

"No," Thor told the archer, raising a hand. He didn't drop the arrow, but he didn't fire it, either. "Wait… wait."

"You tell him to _wait?_" Loki spat. "You fool—do you truly believe that I'll spare you at this point? You have placed yourself in my way one too many times, brother. I can't let you live any longer."

"Loki, be reasonable," Thor implored, but a shimmer of light shone between Loki's outstretched hands, forming a sharp-tipped staff not unlike the one used during his attempt to harness the power of the Tesseract.

"I am far past reason," he rasped.

Just then, one of the doors to the wide living room flew open, revealing a tall blonde man, a look of utter shock painted over his rugged features. He took half a step inside, then stopped. "Loki?" he breathed. "…Jim?"

"Hey," Tony cried out, "aren't you the pizza man?"

The Master gave him an irritated glance before striding the rest of the way into the room, glancing among those assembled. "What—"

Before he could get out so much as another word, Iron Man lifted a hand, directing it towards him and releasing a blast of icy blue energy. The Time Lord was thrown backwards, slamming against the wall with an unpleasant cracking sound, then sank to the ground, an unmoving heap.

"Son of a bitch," Tony muttered. "So you're the reason that we got deep-dish instead of thin crust."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "And the reason that SHIELD was blown up!"

"Again," Clint commented under his breath.

Thor was ignoring their antics completely, focused as he was on his brother. "Loki," he rasped, slowly pacing forwards until the two gods were less than two feet apart. The other Avengers fell silent, watching nervously. Bruce shifted at the back of the group, fingering his sleeve, clearly unsure whether or not he ought to be 'preparing' for a potential fight. "You must know that this is wrong. Look at these people. They're innocent. They don't deserve to be killed!"

"Neither did I!" Loki cried, raising his staff defensively. "And yet in Asgard, I was sentenced to execution! I would be dead now if not for Lucifer and the Master, and what did you ever do to defend me then?"

"You were in prison," Thor whispered roughly. "You didn't see any of the decisions that Odin made, you had no idea how hard I fought against them, how much I asked that he give you just one more chance…"

An odd light was beginning to gleam in Loki's eyes, and his tense arms relaxed ever so slightly, the tip of the staff descending a few centimeters. "You did?" he questioned warily.

"I did, and I would again!" Thor insisted emphatically. His hand not burdened by Mjölnir lifted, gripped Loki's shoulder. "Please, brother—we needn't return there, if it's not your wish. I do not wish you dead. I only want you to stop this madness, this violence… don't you see, don't you see how absurd it is?"

The staff dipped yet farther, until it was held only loosely. Loki's expression had completely transformed, and he looked almost _scared, _his eyes wide and his face pale, lips trembling slightly. "Thor—"

The name was cut off in a horrible, strangled choking. His eyes bulged, and his jaw dropped, a tiny stream of dark blood seeping from the corner of his mouth as he swayed on his feet.

"_No!_" Thor shouted as the staff fell from Loki's hands, seeming to hit the ground in slow motion. The ringing bang echoed through the whole room, and the god folded slowly to the ground, the misty light fading away from his gray-blue eyes, sprawling on the floor to expose the shimmering blade embedded between his shoulder blades.

"There we go," Lucifer murmured, visible now that the man he murdered had fallen away. "Both of those nasty tricksters gone… that blade belonged to the other one, in fact, my little brother, nicked it right off his corpse…"

"You killed him," Thor gasped hoarsely, slowly raising his pale blue eyes to focus on Lucifer's careless face, the stolen face of Sam Winchester. "He was your ally, and you killed him."

"He was about to turn on me, in any case. Don't complain… I did you a favor. Mutual enemy, in the end, wasn't he? Then again, I suppose no one ever really cared much for him…" Lucifer kicked at Loki's body, shoving it aside. "In any case, the other three are no longer a concern. It's between us now. Me… and you. The little Avengers." He chuckled, shaking his head. "Do you really believe that you poor creatures have any hope of defeating me? I am the Devil, after all."

"But I," Thor hissed, ignoring the rest of those gathered behind him, "I am a god. And beyond that, an Avenger. And you, _Devil, _can be absolutely positive that nothing is worth avenging more than my brother."

He dropped Mjölnir to the ground with an earthshaking crash, lunged forward and wrapped his heavy fingers around the shimmering hilt of the blade in Loki's unmoving back. He wrenched it out and whipped it up in a single swift movement, and before anyone could so much as blink, it was plunged into Lucifer's chest, Thor pushing with all the might of his massively muscled arms until it was buried up to the hilt. The fallen angel's lips parted, a faint retching sound escaping his throat, and his shoulders contorted in a brief spasm. Then, all at once, fountains of light erupted from his eyes and mouth, as well as an inhuman, shrieking cry. The blinding whiteness shot towards the ceiling, and the rest of the Avengers ducked away, most of them raising hands to block their eyes and Steve lifting his shield for the same purpose. Thor, however, stared straight at it, twisting the knife as hard as he could and relishing the satisfaction. After several long seconds, Lucifer finally went limp, the light dying away as he folded to ground. Only it was no longer him. The Devil was gone, gone for good, and the battle was won, leaving behind only the corpses of Jim Moriarty, Loki Laufeyson, and Sam Winchester.


	15. Resolve

**A/N** _And this is it. Another massive thank you to everyone who reviewed, alerted, and favorited; every last one of you inspired and motivated me. I have a few more points I want to touch on, but I'll put those at the end of the chapter. Also, there's a more semi-shippy content in here, for both Destiel and Johnlock. Again, though, it's more or less up to interpretation. Oh, and just o__ne more thing: whoever said the Master was dead? ;3_

**Thanks to** _Basia Orci, mudkipz, Mirabilem Electo, Cynder713, KDVaren, Lucyndareads, Call Me Captain, xallfalldownx, elmoisemo6, Byrneshadow, whaaa, and DesertDarkfire__  
_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own the Avengers/Doctor Who/Supernatural/Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER XV. **_Resolve_

"So there really wasn't any need for us to leave at all," Amy grumbled, her hands poised on her hips and her hazel eyes narrowed in the direction of the Doctor. "We would have been perfectly safe going with you."

"Not necessarily," the Doctor objected. A light breeze ran down the quiet street, ruffling his hair and rendering his serious face unfairly adorable. Amy sighed and rolled her eyes, then reached up to give his shoulder a gentle squeeze, a smile tickling her crimson-painted lips.

"I suppose this is it, then?" she murmured.

He glanced down at the sonic screwdriver he was fingering and shrugged, his shoulder muscles shifting uncomfortably against the TARDIS that he was leaning against. "I guess so."

"Well, thank you. I've been thinking, you know—Rory might be right. About us needing to settle down. At first I was disappointed that there wasn't as much running and madness this time around, but… really, maybe it was what we needed. Just a… a closing note, you know?"

"Right."

"Oh, stop moping," she huffed. "It's not like you're going to be alone, after all."

As if on cue, the door of the TARDIS creaked open, and a disgruntled-looking Master poked his head out. The bruise resulting from his collision with the mansion's wall a day ago was still vivid purple, and his eyes were shadowed, grouchy. "How long are you going to take?"

"Give me a break, I've been with them for years," the Doctor shot back, a helpless smile spreading over his face. He tucked his screwdriver into his front pocket and straightened up a bit, his eyes losing some of their shadow. "And don't prod at the console, I don't want to end up stranded here!" he added sharply as the Master withdrew. The only response was an irritated grunt.

"Well, I suppose I ought to get going, then," the Doctor decided, "there's no telling what he'll do if he's bored, and I don't even know what this new regeneration might see as innocent mischief…"

"Are you sure that you're safe with him?" Amy checked softly, a hint of concern shining in her eyes. She combed a few strands of gingery hair out of her face with her crimson-painted nails. "I mean, I know you used to be friends, but after everything he's done…"

"Oh, he's still plenty dangerous, I'm sure," he shrugged. "But there's no one else who could take care of him, and I've still got a bit of faith that he can pull through."

"Well…" She bit her lip for a moment. "Good luck."

"Thanks, Pond. You look out for yourself—both of you," he added to Rory, who was standing a few feet behind Amy. He quickly nodded and gave a short wave, to which the Doctor returned an extravagant salute before pulling back into the TARDIS. The door closed for the last time with a final-sounding click, and, seconds later, it had vanished.

Amy sighed, stared into the empty air for just a couple of seconds before turning back to face her house and her husband. "So," she asked, fighting to keep her voice bright, "orange juice?"

* * *

"You sure you're alright?" Dean checked, leaning farther back into the pillows propped against the headboard of the hotel bed. His legs were extended along the mattress, eyes fixed on his sock-clad toes and phone tucked against his shoulder.

Lisa's words was almost exasperated, a bit scratchy over the bad reception but still undoubtedly spoken through a smile. "I must have told you a hundred times, you haven't been the same since you stopped hunting. By all means, go back out, start up again. It'll be good for you. Better than anything Ben and I could ever provide. Just… stay in contact with us, okay? We want to know that you're safe."

"'Course."

They were both silent for a long moment, before she finally let out a noisy sigh. "Dean, are you going to be okay? Without… well… without Sam?" She murmured the tentative question softly, her voice a bit more hushed than before.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his head harder against the wooden board behind it. "Yeah," he mumbled, "I'll manage. Don't worry."

"If you're sure…"

"Positive. And—Lisa?"

"Hm?"

His eyes drifted open again and slid across the room, finally focusing on Castiel, who sat on the other bed, his back to Dean and his head down. A tiny smile quirked the edge of his mouth, contradicting the constant ache of losing Sam all over again with a soft hint of sweetness. "If you want to… to start dating again, I wouldn't hold that against you. Just, for Ben's sake and all."

"…Alright." She sighed again, and he could practically hear her nodding, her face set in firm resolution. "Thank you. Good luck, Dean."

"Yeah. You too." The line went silent, and he flipped the cell phone shut, stretching his legs for a long, luxurious moment before straightening up. "Ow—damn," he hissed as his shoulder panged wickedly.

"Are you alright?" Cas glanced over quickly, his azure eyes wide and questioning.

"Fine," he confirmed, wincing as he slowly flexed the muscle. "Can't you just use your healing mojo, patch me up here? If we really are gonna be on the road again—"

"I think I am… recovered enough for that," Cas agreed. Dean raised his eyebrows at the pleasant surprise, and the angel slid off his own bed, plodding over to Dean and gently laying a hand on his arm. The gesture was warm, comforting, and a soft sort of electric shock traveled up through his veins, running over the many cuts on his face and torso, closing them over and healing them up.

"…Thanks," he murmured.

Castiel nodded, looked away. "Dean, I—" He hesitated. "Why… why did you say that to her? Tell her that she can keep dating? You love her, don't you?"

"I thought I did." Closing his eyes again, he leaned back, fully able to relax now that his wounds had vanished. He didn't need to offer any more explanation, not for now. Cas would have reason enough to understand why he'd 'broken up' with Lisa, eventually.

All in good time.

* * *

"Sorry, your chair was gotten rid of a while back," John admitted, standing in the middle of 221b Baker Street and watching as Sherlock slowly took in the room, his eyes wide with an emotion rarely visible on his usually cold features. He seemed… happy, almost bittersweet.

"I never realized how much I missed this place," he murmured, his voice even lower than usual.

"Yeah, well… I'm sure you had other things on your mind."

"I did." Sherlock glanced up at him, but he looked away, his face heating for some unidentifiable reason. "I missed you too much to care about the flat, John."

John swallowed and kept staring at the floor. "Can we… can we not have this discussion right now? Please? I don't want to remember it right now. You're back, and that's all that matters. Okay? There's no reason to relive… those months… were the worst of my life." It was getting harder to speak, and it didn't help that Sherlock's head was tilting to the side in a softly puzzled manner as he took a few steps closer.

"The worst of your life? You went through a _war._"

A harsh laugh crackled from his throat. "Yeah, trust me, that was _nothing _compared to this. Life was _torture, _Sherlock, it—" He cut himself out and straightened up with a deep breath, turning around to fully face the detective—who, he realized, was much closer than he'd thought. Their faces were mere centimeters apart, and he could see every tiny thread of green interspersing Sherlock's wide gray eyes, every long lash.

"I never meant to hurt you," he breathed. God, when did his voice get that _rich? _Had it always been like that, liquid dark chocolate, purring and deep…

A loud slam from downstairs caused them both to jump and stumble several steps back from each other. John's heart finally seemed to catch up with him, racing and bounding in a completely ridiculous motion. He inhaled quickly, soothing the sudden lightheadedness that was prickling at his skull, and turned towards the door as voices floated up the stairwell.

"Mrs. Hudson must be back," he said.

Sherlock nodded, then cast him a slightly concerned glance. "She might not be able to handle seeing me. Her heart isn't what it used to be."

"Right. I can go out, let her know, help it sink in slowly…"

"There are going to be others that we'll need to tell," Sherlock added as John started into the hall. "Lestrade… Anderson…"

"Oh, I'm sure you'd _love _to give Anderson a heart attack," John snorted. His heart was beginning to settle down at the thought of normal interaction, interaction with someone aside from Sherlock. "In all seriousness, though, we'll worry about them when the time comes. For now, we'll just get the Baker Street family reunited, good?"

"Good," Sherlock agreed. And he smiled—a normal gesture for some people, but on him, the expression was remarkable, soft and tentative, something that caused the sensation of an iron fist ramming down John's throat and lodging itself in his ribcage.

It wasn't altogether unpleasant.

* * *

Nick Fury stood in front of three computer monitors, all of them wide and flat, each glowing palely and showing a different face. On the far left was the Doctor, reclining in what must have been one of the TARDIS's seats, his legs crossed and his fingers poised on his knees, a light smile playing around his lips. The middle featured Sherlock, staring intently into the camera, his eyes vivid blue and his pale face tinged by the same color, a result of the screen's shade. And on the right was Castiel, frowning as though puzzled by the technology, his lips pressed together with intensity and his eyebrows brought down low.

Fury folded his hands behind his back, considering his three newest recruits. The screens were the only light in the small room, which was otherwise murkily dark. "You've all gone your separate ways for now," he began carefully, his single eye gleaming in the light from the monitors. "And SHIELD has allowed you to do such."

"Allowed?" Sherlock scoffed.

"Allowed," he repeated steadily. The Doctor frowned, but no one else objected. "You need to understand, however, that the three of you are now members of the Avengers Initiative. If—and when—we find ourselves in need of your skills again, we will not hesitate to track you down, whether or not the problems pertain to you specifically."

"That might be a bit difficult," the Doctor pointed out. "All of time and space, hardly a small area—"

"We'll be able to get your attention, trust me," the director assured him grimly. "It won't be a struggle for us. Now, listen—are you all aware of and willing to come forth when SHIELD calls you? Or will it be a struggle?"

"It won't be a struggle," Sherlock promised, a smirk curling his lips. "This was the most interesting case I've been presented with in my entire career… rest assured that I'll be prepared to come."

"Me as well," the Doctor piped up. "Though I really do suggest that you reconsider your organization's general approach towards threats, Director, I can promise you that plenty of aliens have perfectly healthy intentions."

"I'll be sure," Fury muttered, turning to the third and final screen.

After a long moment, Castiel nodded. "It would be useless to defy you," he rasped. "Though I must warn you, I will serve little purpose if you are dealing of something neither demonic nor angelic."

"Oh, I'm sure we'll find a use for you." Fury took a single step back, considering the three dark-haired men. "The Doctor, Sherlock Holmes, Castiel… the new Avengers. The rest of the team was rather impressed by you, as well. I look forward to the day when you all are pulled together again." With a short nod, he spoke to the computer in an undertone. "End call."

The screens flickered to darkness, leaving him in shadows, the tiny room illuminated only by the low lights of the sleeping computers. "And that day," he murmured, dipping his head slightly, "may be much closer than any of us dare to think."

**FIN**

* * *

_Alright, so I imagine the word that most of you are looking for is 'sequel.' And, sure enough, that's what I'm going to offer. Right now, I'm wrapped up in writing the sequel to "When We Start Killing," my other big Wholock fic (find it on my account, if you're interested!), but I believe I'll be free to start something new in about a month or so. I'm completely willing to leave this story at rest here, but I also have a few little ideas for a second one (Rose, anyone? Also, I may have something in store for those of you who've seen BBC's 'Jekyll'...). I'd also like the chance to do a little more with characters like Cas and Dean, who never really got their opportunity to show their inner badasses. _

_So, really, it's up to all of you. If you want a sequel, LET ME KNOW! The best way to do this is, of course, through a review. If I do decide to do one, like I said, it'll still be a few weeks before I start. If you're at all interested in my other stories, meanwhile, I have plenty others on my account, both full-length and one-shots. _

_*EDIT 10/28/12: Due to an immediate wave of enthusiasm, I now tentatively plan on doing a sequel to this story. You'll have to wait a little while for me to catch up on my other stories, but chances are that you can count on something popping up around January. Go ahead and put me on Author Alert! Additionally, there have been a few mentions of including the ships hinted at in here (Destiel and Johnlock), and there's now a poll at the top of my profile page relating to that. _

_That's all I have. Thank you all for reading, have a wonderful rest of your day/night/whatever it might be in your time zone!_


	16. SEQUEL

**I'm back.**

The sequel to this story has finally begun! You can find it on my profile, with the title "Brave New World." Since so many of you seemed eager for a second installment, I hope that you'll check it out and enjoy!


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